“Just so! If I make that train all right with this stuff, there’ll be a couple of hundred dollars for you, my boy; and what’s more, you can have the story all to yourself. It will be better than the old man’s death.” A pleasant smile circled around the reporter’s chubby face. “All right, Mr. Wilkins! What do you want now?” “I’ve sent out for another bag,” Brainard explained. “I’ll just pass the rest of these papers out to you, and you can stack them ready to pack when the bag comes.” Brainard opened the inner door and listened. There were faint sounds like sobbing within the safe. “If she can cry, she’ll last,” he said to himself. “Now for it! Where in thunder can that fellow Peters be? I hope he hasn’t heard that the old man is dead!” He began to shove the books and papers through the door, which he kept nearly closed, for fear that the reporter might detect the sounds that came from the safe, and ask questions. It was dark now, but he did not dare to turn on the electric lights, for the windows faced the street, and he feared men might already be watching the office. He had transferred all the packages not packed, and was struggling at his heavy valise, when he heard a voice behind him, and started. “I guess you thought I was never coming back,” Peters stammered breathlessly. He was dragging a small trunk through the little back door behind the safe. “It nearly broke my back getting this thing up those five flights of stairs.” “Bring it this way, Peters!” Brainard shouted nervously, pushing the old man through the door into the outer office. He banged the door shut just as a muffled scream issued from the safe. “What’s that?” Peters asked, dropping the trunk to the floor. “Somebody in the hall, I suppose,” Brainard replied coolly. Fortunately the old man’s attention was distracted from the scream by the sight of the reporter. Farson had lighted another cigarette, and was swinging his legs and smiling amiably. “Didn’t expect to see me, did you?” “Who—” “That’s all right. Your friend here seems to be in a hurry. He asked me to stay and help in the spring moving.” “Come, get to work!” Brainard called out, on his knees before the trunk. “Cigars and explanations afterward!” They slung the books and the packages of papers, which the reporter had neatly arranged, into the little trunk. Then they closed and locked it. Brainard unbolted the outer door. “I wouldn’t make my exit by the front door,” the reporter advised. “I reckon you’d be spotted before you got to the street. There’s a back way, ain’t there?” Brainard, thinking of the woman in the safe, hesitated. “That’s how I brought up the trunk,” Peters said. “There’s nobody out there.” Brainard opened the door to the inner office, and listened. It was quite still. Probably the woman had fainted. “Come on!” he called, grasping one end of the trunk.