“Let us see if there are any signs of footprints,” said the manager, going to the door.
The rain had obliterated Jean Petit’s tracks. He had come and gone like a cat in the darkness, opening both the outer doors and the safe noiselessly with his skeleton keys while George Chard slept soundly in the next room.
His accomplice had waited under the shadow of the river bank half a mile up stream, and the boat had taken them quietly away with the gold.
“If anybody came in,” mused the manager, presently, “they must have come in by the outside door.”
“If!” repeated George. “There can be no doubt about it!”
But the word had brought him a strange thrill of apprehension.
Good God! Was it possible?
He endeavoured to catch the manager’s eye.
“What do you mean by saying if?” he demanded suddenly.