ray creeping inquisitively now along
the rear wall of the shop. It held finally on an escritoire over in the
far corner at her right.

Once more the light went out. She moved swiftly across the floor, and
in a moment more was bending over the escritoire. And now, with her body
hiding the flashlight's rays from the front windows, she examined the
desk. It was an old-fashioned, spindle-legged affair, with a nest of
pigeonholes and multifarious little drawers. One of the drawers, wider
than any of the others, and in the center, was obviously the one to
which Gypsy Nan referred. She pulled out the drawer, and in the act
of reaching inside, suddenly drew back her hand. What was that?
Instinctively she switched off the flashlight, and stood tense and rigid
in the darkness.

A minute passed-another. Still she listened. There was no
sound--unless--unless she could actually hear the beating of her heart.
Fancy! Imagination! The darkness played strange tricks! It--it wasn't so
easy to keep one' s nerve. She could have sworn that she had heard some
sort of movement back there down the shop.

Angry with herself, she thrust her hand into the opening now and felt
hurriedly around. Yes, there it was! Her fingers touched what was
evidently a little knob or button. She pressed upon it. There was a
faint, answering click. She turned on the flashlight again. What
had before appeared to be nothing but one of the wide, pearl inlaid
partitions between two of the smaller drawers, was protruding invitingly
outward now by the matter of an inch or so. Rhoda Gray pulled it open.
It was very shallow, scarcely three-quarters of an inch in depth, but
it was quite long enough, and quite wide enough for its purpose!
Inside, there lay a little pile of banknotes, banknotes of very large
denomination--the one on top was a thousand-dollar bill.

She reached in and took out the money-and then from Rhoda Gray's lips
there came a little cry, the flashlight dropped from her hand and
smashed to the floor, and she was clinging desperately to the edge of
the escritoire for support. The shop was flooded with light. Over by
the side wall, one hand still on the electric-light switch, the other
holding a leveled revolver, stood a man.

And then the man spoke--with an oath--with curious amazement:

"My God--a woman!"

She did not speak, or stir. It seemed as though not fear, but horror
now, held her powerless to move her limbs. Her first swift brain-flash
h