"Oh, you're manager, are you!" came in slow retort, filling a silence that had more of pain than pleasure in it. "Well, manager, your story is very interesting, but by no means complete. Suppose you hurry on to the next instalment." Cringing as from a blow, Fellows took up his tale, no longer creeping nearer his would-be confederate, but, if anything, edging away. CHAPTER III "_How does it stand_" "I've watched and watched and watched," said he, "but I can't pick out the man. Letters come, orders are given, and those orders are carried out, but _not by me_. I'm speaking now of investments, or the payment of large sums; anything which calls for the opening of that safe where the old man has stuffed away his thousands. Small matters fall to my share. There is another safe, of which I hold the combination. Child's play, but the other! It would make both of us independent, and yet leave something for appearances. But it can't be worked. It stands in front of a glass door from which the curtain is drawn every night. Every passerby can look in. If it is opened it must be done in broad daylight and by the person whom the old man trusts. By that means only would I get my revenge, and revenge is what I want. He don't trust me, _me_ who have been with him for seven years and----" "Drop that, it isn't interesting. The facts are what I want. What kind of safe is it?" "The strangest you ever saw. I don't know who made it. There's nothing on it to show. Nor is there a lock or combination. But it opens. You can just see the outline of a door. Steel--fine steel, and not so very large, but the contents----" "We'll take its contents for granted. How does it stand? On a platform?" "Yes, one foot from the floor. The platform runs all the way across the room and holds other things; a table which nobody uses, a revolving bookcase and a series of shelves, fitted with boxes containing old receipts and such junk. Sometimes I go through these; but nothing ever comes of it." He paused, as if the subject were distasteful. "And the safe is opened?" "Almost every week. I'm ashamed to tell you the old duffer's methods; they're loony. But he isn't a lunatic. At any rate, they don't think so in Wall Street." "I'll make a guess at his name." "Not yet. You'll have to swear----" "Oh, we're both in it. Never mind the heroics. It's too good a thing to peach on. Me and the manager! I like that. Take it easy till the job's done, anyway. And now I'll take a fly at the name. It's----" He had the grace to whisper. CHAPTER IV "_Stenographers must be counted_" Young Fellows squirmed and turned a shade paler, if one could trust the sickly violet ray that shot down from the once exquisitely colored window high up over their heads. "Hush!" he muttered; and the other grinned. Evidently the guess was a correct one. "No, he's no lunatic," the professional quietly declared. "But he has queer ways. Which of his queers do you object to?"