A whisper, obviously Laroque's this time, came
once more from the inner room.
"Shoot the flash again!" And then, savagely: "Curse it, not on the
_ceiling_! Can't you hold it steady! What the devil is the matter
with you!"
There was no answer. A dull glimmer of light filtered through the
doorway, but from the position in which he lay Jimmie Dale could
distinguish nothing in the inner room itself.
"All right! That'll do!" Laroque growled presently.
The light went out. Jimmie Dale crept forward again. And now he gained
the rear wall of the room, and crouched down close against it between
the two doorways.
Came the sound of breathing now, heavy, as from sustained exertion,
making almost an undertone of the steady _click-click-click_ of the
ratchet, and the sullen gnaw of the bit. The minutes passed. The
flashlight went on again--and Jimmie Dale strained forward. Two dark
forms, backs to him, were outlined against the face of the safe which
was at the far side of the room, a nickel dial glistened in the white
ray--he could make out nothing else.
Then darkness again. And again, after a time, the flashlight. Ten,
fifteen, perhaps twenty minutes dragged by.
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