The clerk looked up suspiciously at us.
"No," he replied defiantly.
"Walter—stand by that door," shouted Craig. "Let no one in until they break it down."
His blue-steel automatic gleamed a cold menace at the clerk. A downtown office after office hours is not exactly the place to which one can get assistance quickly. The clerk started back.
"Did he have a visit from one of his detectives?"
"Yes."
"What was it about?"
The clerk winced. "I don't know," he replied, "honest—I don't."
Craig waved the gun for emphasis. "Open the safe," he said.
Reluctantly the clerk obeyed. Under the point of the gun he searched every compartment and drawer of the big chrome steel strong-box which Whitney had pointed out as the safest place for the dagger on our first visit to him. But there was absolutely no trace of it. Had we been hoaxed and was all this risk in vain?