" Stangeist flashed out violently.

"That's all right," repeated Clarie Deane. "There's half of that minute
gone."

Jimmie Dale's eyes, in a fascinated sort of way, were on Stangeist. The
man's face was twitching now, moisture began to ooze from his forehead,
as the callous brutality of the scowling faces seemed to get him--and
then he lurched suddenly forward in his chair.

"My God!" he cried out, a ring of terror in his voice "What do you mean
to do? You'll pay for it! They'll get you! The servants will be back in
a minute."

"Two skirts!" jeered Clarie Deane. "We ain't goin' ter run away from
them. If they comes before we goes, we'll fix 'em. That minute's up!"

Stangeist licked his lips with his tongue.

"Suppose--suppose I refuse?" he said hoarsely.

"You can suit yerself," said Clarie Deane, with a vicious grin. "We know
the paper's there, an' we gets it before we leaves here--see? You can
take yer choice. Either you goes over ter the safe an' opens it yerself,
or else"--he paused and produced a small bottle from his pocket--"this
is nitro-glycerin', an' we opens it fer you with this. Only if we does
the job we does it proper. We ties you up and sets you against the door
of the safe before we touches off the 'soup,' an' mabbe if yer a good
guesser you can guess the rest."

There was a short, raucous guffaw from The Mope.

Stangeist turned a drawn face toward the man, stared at him, and
stared in a miserable way at the other two in turn. He licked his lips
again--none was in a better position than himself to know that there
would be neither scruples nor hesitancy to interfere with carrying out
the threat.

"Suppose," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "suppose I open the
safe--what then--afterward?"

"We ain't got the safe open yet," countered Clarie Deane
uncompromisingly. "An' we ain't got no more time ter fool over it,
either. You get a move on before I counts five, or The Mope an' Ike ties
you up! One--"

Stangeist staggered to his feet, wiped the blood out of his eyes for the
second time, and, with lips working, went unsteadily across the room to
the safe.

He knelt before it, and began to manipulate the dial; while the others
crowded around behind him. The Mope was fingering his revolver again
club fashion. Australian Ike's elbow just grazed the portieres, and
Jimmie Dale flattened himself against the window, holding his breath--a
smile on his lips that was mirthless, deadly, cold. The