It was very still now--only the breathing from above that seemed in
cadence with those strange and paradoxical palpitations that are known
only in a great silence--the piano for the moment had ceased its jangle.
Jimmie Dale's fingers, from the dial, sought the floor, and frictioned
briskly over the rough, threadbare carpet, until the nerves tingled
under the delicate skin--and then they shot to the dial again.
Strained, every faculty keyed up to its highest tension, he crouched
there against the safe. Again and again his fingers rubbed over the
rough carpet, and again the sweat beads oozed out upon his forehead with
the strain--and then there came through the stillness a long-drawn
intake of his breath. The handle swung the bolt with a low metallic
thud--the safe was open.
There was the inner door now. Again those slim fingers, almost raw,
quivering now at the tips, rubbed along the carpet, and the lips, just
showing beneath the edge of the mask, grew tight with pain. Then he
leaned forward, crouched once more, his head and shoulders inside the
outer door, like some strange animal burrowing for its prey. Faint,
musical, like some far distant tinkle, came the twirling of the
dial--and then, suddenly, he drew back sharply, his hand shot to his
pocket, whipped out his automatic, and, motionless there on his knees,
every muscle rigid, he listened.
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