He began to pass out the contents of the drawers to the clerk, who shoved them hastily into the large valise. But before Brainard had quite finished the second tier of drawers, the bag was almost filled with crisp, tightly packed bundles of securities and legal papers. There remained books and other rows of documents. Brainard looked at some of them impatiently, trying to decide what could best be left behind. At last he exclaimed: “It’s no use my trying to pick it over. I might leave the best of the lot. I must have a small trunk. Can you get me one, Peters? While you are gone I will fetch it all out here and sort it over. . . . No, don’t go out that way!” he exclaimed, as the clerk started for the outer door. “Where does that go?” He pointed to a small door behind the corner of the safe. “It’s the fire escape,” Peters explained timidly. “Just the thing!” He opened the door and peered out into the dark, inclosed well down which ran one of the modern circular fire escapes. Brainard handed Peters a bill, and shoved him toward the door. After the clerk had gone, Brainard turned to his task, and emptied the safe in a few minutes. Then he began to sort the books and papers and securities into piles for convenient packing, stuffing the bonds and stocks, which he judged to be the most valuable part of the loot, into his valise. There had been no movement by the stenographer for some time, and Brainard had almost forgotten her presence. Suddenly, while he was in the safe, he heard a slight sound outside, like the movement of a woman’s dress. He jumped to his feet. The stenographer, with one hand on the desk telephone, was about to take off the receiver. “Put that down!” Brainard ordered, and added more gently, “What are you telephoning for?” “Just going to call up a friend,” the woman replied pertly, and started to take the receiver off the hook again. Brainard cleared the intervening space in a bound, and snatched the instrument from the woman’s hand. “You’ll have to wait a while to talk to your friend!” “What are you doing here, anyway?” she asked angrily. “You can see—packing up some papers. You might give me a hand.” “Say,” she replied without moving, “I don’t believe that yarn you told old Peters.” “Oh, you don’t?” “Not for one minute!” “Well, what will you do about it?” The girl tapped sullenly with her foot, without replying. “Want to let that friend of yours know about me?” Brainard continued meaningly. As the stenographer tossed her head and moved again toward the telephone, he added, “Come over here where I can watch you! Quick now, pack those bundles into the bag.” As she still hesitated, defying him, he said sharply, “Get down on your knees and go to work!”