Brainard reflected that the Overland Limited had probably served him a good turn by being late; for he judged that the fewer persons he had to deal with in the present emergency the easier it would be for him to accomplish his purposes. This mild-mannered, flustered clerk did not look formidable. His tones gained confidence. “Mr. Krutzmacht,” Brainard explained glibly, “has met with an accident—not a serious one, I hope. He is in good hands. He has sent me out here to get some papers that he wants from his safe.” “But, but,” the bewildered clerk stammered, “don’t you know that the court—” “They’ve fixed up a receivership, I know,” Brainard interrupted, “that’s the reason perhaps—” “I’ve been expecting ’em in here all the afternoon,” the clerk said nervously, looking at the door. “Then there’ll be the devil to pay generally.” “All the better!” Brainard exclaimed. “Let’s get busy before they arrive.” “But who are you, anyway?” the old man demanded with a sudden access of caution. Brainard merely smiled at the worried old man. He was more and more at his ease, now that he knew the caliber of the timid old clerk, and though he felt the necessity of haste in his operations, if an officer of the court was momentarily expected to make a descent upon Krutzmacht’s private office, yet he spoke and acted with calm. “Suppose we lock these outer doors—if you think any one is likely to interrupt us—and then we can proceed undisturbed.” He shot the brass bolt in the door through which he had entered and glanced into the inner office, but apparently this one had no exit upon the corridor. Meanwhile the stenographer was whispering vehemently to the old clerk, who looked at the intruder doubtfully and seemed irresolute. Brainard leisurely pulled down the shade over the glass window in the door. “There!” he said. “Now we are ready.” He took the sheet that bore Krutzmacht’s signature from his pocket and held it out to Peters. “Want my credentials? That’s a power of attorney Mr. Krutzmacht dictated and signed just before I left him.” He waited for the clerk to adjust his glasses and read the hastily penned sheet, thinking what he should do if by chance the old man refused to recognize it. He did not feel disturbed. The ride across the continent had rested him bodily and mentally. The good meals and the unwonted luxury of eating and sleeping without care, which had been his daily companion for all the years he could remember, had given him a fresh spirit. He could think quickly and with precision; he felt himself amply capable, full of power to meet any emergency that might rise—for the first time in his life. “What do you want to do?” Peters asked, handing back the power of attorney. He seemed somewhat reassured by the sight of his master’s signature at the bottom of the scrawl. “Mr. Krutzmacht wanted me to get the stuff out of his safe—I suppose it’s the one in there?”