"Nothing but a Chinaboy's keister," he said contemptuously. "Not much to that. Why in blazes did he run so?"
"Because you were shooting him up, I'd say," Jim Edwards suggested.
"Naw. Commenced to run before we turned loose on him," Bill protested.
"Hello!" I had pounced on the unbelievable thing, and called to Edwards for his light. "Worth, here's your eight-hundred-thousand-dollar suitcase!"
"That!" he followed along, dusting himself off, trying out his joints. "Oh, yes. I left it in my closet, and it disappeared. Told you of it at the time, didn't I, Jerry?"
"You did not," I sputtered, down on my knees, working away at the catches. "You never told me anything that would be of any use to us. If this thing disappeared, I suppose Vandeman stole it to get a piece of evidence in the Clayte case out of the way."
"Likely." Worth turned, with no further interest, and started toward his own gate.
"Hi! Come back here," I yelled after him. For the lock gave at that moment; there, under the pale circle of the electric torch, lay Clayte-Vandeman's loot!
"My gosh!" mumbled Capehart. "I didn't suppose there was so much money in the known world."
Eddie Hughes, breathing hard; Jim Edwards, bending to hold the torch; Capehart, stooping, blunt hands spread on knees, goggle-eyed; my own fingers shaking as I dragged out my list and attempted to sort through the stuff—not one of us but felt the thrill of that great fortune tumbled down there in the open road in the empty night.