She whimpered, but fell to her knees. They worked silently for several minutes. The vault was stripped bare. The smaller papers were packed into the bag, and the bulkier stuff was stacked on the floor, ready to be thrust into another receptacle. Brainard glanced at his watch. Peters had been gone more than a quarter of an hour. Had he been detained, or had he become suspicious and decided to get advice before going any farther? Brainard considered departing with what he had already packed in his bag, which he judged was the more important part of the safe’s contents. “I guess it’s about time for me to be going home now,” the stenographer remarked, plucking up her courage. “I’ll leave you and Mr. Peters to lock up.” “You want to see that friend badly, don’t you?” Brainard asked. “Not quite yet; the day’s work is not over yet. Be patient!” He did not dare to trust her beyond his sight, nor did he think it wise to leave her behind him. The girl walked idly to the window, then edged along the wall. Beside the safe there was a recess, from which the rear door opened. When the stenographer reached this, she, darted for the door. “Good-by!” she called. “I guess the police will take care of you!” The little door fortunately stuck. Before she could open it, Brainard had dragged her back into the room. “You’re just a common second-story man!” she cried angrily. “Exactly! How clever of you to penetrate my disguise! I’m a car-barn bandit—Texas Joe—anything you please! But before you skip, I want you to look through those drawers in the vault, to see if I have missed anything.” He shoved the surprised woman into the empty vault, and swung the door. As the bolts shot back into place, a muffled cry escaped from within. Brainard called back: “Save your breath! There’s enough air in there to keep you alive for some hours; and I’ll see that you get out in plenty of time to join that friend for dinner. Just keep quiet and save your breath!” A sob answered him from the vault. VIII At that moment a low, confidential knock came on the door of the outer office, followed by a discreet rattling of the knob. “There he is at last!” thought Brainard, with a sense of relief. He hurried to unbolt the door; but instead of Peters’s mild face, a chubby, spectacled young fellow, wearing his derby hat pushed far back on a round, bald head, confronted him. “Who are you?” Brainard demanded, trying to close the door. The man grinned back: “And who are you?” He had shoved his right leg into the opening, and with his question he gave a powerful push that almost knocked Brainard from his feet. “Well?” he said, once within the office, grinning more broadly. “I’m Farson—Edward, Jr.—from the _Despatch_. We just had a wire from New York that Krutzmacht’s been found, dead!” “Dead!” Brainard exclaimed. “Had a stroke or something, and died this morning in a hospital. One of our old men down East got on to it, and tipped us the wire.”