“Well, you’ll have to get some one who can open the vaults fer you to-night.”
Grigsby’s brow darkened, and the small cheerfulness that had begun to adumbrate itself in his face faded quite away.
“That’s so—I hadn’t thought of that.”
He pondered heavily and then said, the old note of fear in his tone:
“Has that vault a time lock?”
“I reckon.”
They were silent.
“Well,” said Grigsby presently, breaking the silence, “I’ll have to get Mendenhall.” Mendenhall was the assistant state treasurer, and was counted among the adherents of Grigsby.
“Better let me go,” said Jennings, taking up his coat and hat.
When he had gone Grigsby again paced the floor. Now he would pause at the window and look down into Sixth Street, where the rain, falling hopelessly and helplessly, was making pools in the depressions of the cedar block pavement that glinted in the white glare of the arc light spluttering before the hotel. Whenever the hoarse sounds of distant locomotive whistles came to him out of the wet night, he jerked forth his watch and sighed as he replaced it. Then he began to worry because Jennings did not reappear. He wondered if Governor Chatham would venture out in such a night to seal the treasury. He cursed Chatham, who had made him, and finally Jennings, who had saved him. Altogether, he passed a very bad two hours. And then Jennings returned. As the tall Egyptian entered the room, Grigsby demanded: