THE RED LEDGER. Frank L. Packard

throbbing, palpitating! There was nothing else.

      A gasp came from Steener—like a moan of relief.

      "It's nothing—thank God, it's nothing! I—I thought I heard something. I—I ain't used to this sort of thing."

      "I'm not a professional safe-tapper myself!" Stranway flung out viciously. "For heaven's sake, keep your nerve!" He dropped to his knees again, and once more the white beam of light played on the dial. "Two right—eleven," he prompted sharply. "What's next?"

      "One turn to the left, then to thirty-six, and throw to the lock," directed Steener huskily.

      "Yes," said Stranway tersely.

      There was a slight metallic thud as the handle operated the bolts, then the heavy door swung silently back, and the flashlight in Stranway's hand bored into the interior of the safe.

      Steener bent forward quickly, opened a drawer, extracted two folded papers, and stepped back.

      "I've got them," he panted. "I've got them. Shut the safe again, and lock it."

      Stranway closed the door, shot the bolts into place with a twist of the handle, gave a twirl to the dial, and stood up.

      "The money!" muttered Steener hungrily. "Give me the money now."

      "Let me see the documents," Stranway countered bluntly.

      "Yes, yes; here, here—come here to the desk," said Steener eagerly.

      The light in Stranway's hand followed the other's movements, and rested on a massive, flat-topped rosewood desk. Steener laid the papers upon it. Stranway's steps were noiseless, deadened by the thick rug that covered the floor, as he stepped to the desk, picked up the papers and began to examine them.

      The first was a certificate for twenty-five shares of the stock of the West County Tool and Machine Company made out to one Frederick H. Longley. He turned it over quickly. The stereotyped form of transfer on the back was signed by Longley and duly witnessed—but the space for the transferee's name was left blank. The other was a proxy for the stock made out in like form. Both were in accordance with Charlebois' instructions. He folded the documents and slipped them into his pocket.

      "The money! The money!" reiterated Steener wildly, holding out his hand. "The money!"

      Stranway, without a word, tossed the envelope containing the banknotes upon the desk.

      Steener clutched at it fiercely, pulled out the notes and began to count them, whispering eagerly to himself, his fingers shaking.

      Grim-faced, Stranway held the light and watched him. A bill fluttered to the floor from the fumbling hands. Stranway stooped, picked it up, and thrust it again into Steener's fingers; then he leaned forward suddenly and caught the other's hand.

      Steener jumped back nervously, as though he had been struck.

      "What is it? What is it? What's the matter?" he mumbled.

      "Look here," demanded Stranway sharply, "why didn't you put the papers in your pocket when you left the office this evening, instead of coming back here for them in the middle of the night?"

      "Because I didn't dare," said Steener, staring at Stranway in surprise. "I thought you understood. Mr. Poindexter told me to get all that stock together and ready for him to take away with him. He went to Cleveland to-night. There were about a hundred certificates and proxies in all. I made a package of them and handed them to him. I left this one in the safe—don't you see? I was afraid he might count them. If he did he would find one short; and then, of course, it would seem no more than carelessness on my part that had caused me to overlook one, for it would still be in the safe, you understand? He didn't count them"—Steener seemed to shiver slightly as he spoke—"he—he trusted me."

      He trusted me! The words seemed to curl like the hot, burning sting of a whiplash, flicking Stranway on the raw. It was what some inner voice of his own had been striving to say for the last few minutes, wasn't it? Conscience! What was it Charlebois had said about conscience? His lips tightened. It was a little late in the game to distrust Charlebois now, wasn't it? A little late to kick a hole in the only justification he had for what he was doing here!

      "I had to accompany him to the train, leave the office when he did," Steener went on; "so, of course, there was nothing to do but come back for it. And I wasn't going to come back until—until I was sure I was going to get my money. I—I've got to get out of the country now, but these'll take me"—he was cramming the banknotes into his pocket—"these'll take me a long way, and I'll make a new start—a long way, and——"

      Each man was staring into the other's face; each, like a figure turned to stone, stood motionless, breathless, one on either side of the desk. This time there was no mistake. The light in Stranway's hand vanished.

      Steener reached across the desk, and caught at Stranway convulsively.

      "My God," he gasped, "I forgot to lock the door of the outer office. It's the watchman. He's found it open, and he's coming."

      A heavy tread, sounding nearer and nearer, came from the room without. And now a faint glow of light, undoubtedly from the watchman's lantern, crept along the ceiling from where, near the top, the office partitions were of glass.

      "We can't get out—there's no way out!" Steener was whispering in terror. "And even if we broke away from him, he'd recognise me, and then, and then—oh, my God!" The last was a broken sob.

      Stranway's jaws clamped together. In spite of the imminent danger to himself, a wave of pity for the other swept over him. He was not questioning Charlebois now. He dared not question Charlebois for his own peace of mind. But fifty thousand dollars would tempt many men; and, whatever it all might mean, it was no more than playing the game to give this man a chance, if he could.

      His fingers closed with a fierce, significant pressure on Steener's arm.

      "Leave the watchman to me," he said under his breath. "Get over there by the partition near the door. The instant he comes in—run for it! Do you understand?"

      Without waiting for a reply, half guiding, half pulling Steener with him, Stranway crossed to the door, and both crouched back close against the wall.

      The footsteps came nearer. The man was tramping heavily down the aisle of the general office. Came then a metallic ring as of the lantern base knocking against something. The steps halted at the threshold of the private office. A hand fumbled at the door-knob. And then the door opened, and a path of light fell across the floor.

      Like a flash, Stranway's arms shot out, his hands closed on the dark form behind the light—and with a sudden pull he brought the man staggering toward him through the doorway.

      There was a crash, a tinkle of splintering glass as the lantern sailed across the room, smashed against the opposite wall, and went out. Came then a chorus of growling, gasping oaths from the watchman—and the man, quick to act, grappled savagely with Stranway. The next instant, they had pitched to the floor, and, rolling over and over, each was seeking a master hold.

      "Run!" Stranway flung at Steener—and heard the other dash frantically away through the outer office. But now the sweat beads were standing out on Stranway's forehead. Muscular and athletic though he was, he was being hard put to it to hold his own, and was at a decided disadvantage in that he had no wish to strike or harm the other—only to break from the man now that Steener had got away, and, with a minute's start, trust to the darkness to effect his own escape.

      For a moment now he was uppermost. It was his chance. Concentrating all his strength in a sudden effort, he wrenched himself free from the other's arms, sprang to his feet, gained the door, crashed it shut behind him, and dashed blindly down the outer office, his hands outstretched to ward himself off as best he could from the desks and chairs about him.

      Shouts and yells came from the private office. He heard the inner door open—but he had reached the outer one now. He gained the corridor, and leaped out into the street. No one was in sight. But the watchman's voice, bawling the alarm, came from within—and in