"I didn't hear anything!"
"Neither did I," admitted the first speaker. "It wasn't that--it was
like a draft of air--as though the door or a window had been opened."
"Forget it!" observed the second voice contemptuously. "Cut out the
jumps--we've got to get through here before Sonnino gets back. You'd
make a wooden Indian nervous!"
There was silence for an instant, then a curious gnawing sound
punctuated with quick, low, metallic rasps as of a ratchet at work--and
upon Jimmie Dale for a moment came stunned dismay. Time, the one factor
upon which he had depended, was lost to him; Clarie Archman and
Gentleman Laroque were already at work in there in that room beyond. He
stood motionless, his brain whirling; and then slowly, without a sound,
an inch at a time, he began to close the door behind him. He could see
nothing; but the door connecting the two rooms was obviously open--the
distinctness with which the whispering voices had reached him was proof
of that. They were working, too, without light, or he would have got a
warning gleam when he had looked through the window. And now--what now?
The picklock was shifted to his left hand, as he drew his automatic from
his pocket.
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