It was a moment before Jimmie Dale moved--but into Smarlinghue's
distorted features there came a strange smile. He reeled a little from
weakness, as he walked to the door, locked it, and, returning, stooped
and picked up the cash-box from the floor. In the false bottom, the
Tocsin had said. From the leather girdle came a sharp-pointed tool. He
pried with it for an instant inside and around the bottom edges, and
loosening a sheet of metal that fitted exactly to the edges of the box,
lifted out from beneath it several folded sheets of paper. He glanced at
the typewritten sheets, a curious, menacing gleam creeping into the dark
eyes, then thrust the papers inside his shirt; and, dropping into a
chair, unlaced and kicked off his blood-soaked boot.
He was very weak; he had lost, he must have lost, a great deal of
blood--but there was something to do yet--still something to do. There
was still--the Wolf!
He tore the sheet on the cot into strips, and washed and dressed his
wound--a flesh wound, but bad enough, he saw, just above the knee. And
then, this done, he took a damp piece of cloth, went to the door again,
opened it, and looked out. There was neither any one in sight, nor any
sound.
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