So the car slowly patrolled the narrow length of Lombard Street, an object of professional interest to the half-dozen plain-clothes policemen who were on duty there.
They had three-quarters of an hour to wait, for midnight had rung out from the belfries long before a big car came gliding into the thoroughfare from its western end. It stopped with a jerk before the Safe Deposit, and a top-hatted figure alighted. As he did so, Angel’s car drew up behind, and the three got down.
Spedding, professionally attired in a frock-coat and silk hat, stood with one foot on the steps of the building and his hand upon the key he had fitted.
He evinced no surprise when he saw Angel, and bowed slightly to the girl. Then he opened the door and stepped inside, and Angel and his party followed. He lit the vestibule, opened the inner door, and walked into the darkened hall.
Again came the click of switches, and every light in the great hall blazed.
The girl shivered a little as she looked up at the safe, dominating and sinister, a monument of ruin, a materialization of the dead regrets of a thousand bygone gamblers. Solitary, alone, aloof it rose, distinct from the magnificent building in which it stood—a granite mass set in fine gold. Old Reale had possessed a good eye for contrasts, and had truly foreseen how well would the surrounding beauty of the noble hall emphasize the grim reality of the ugly pedestal.
Spedding closed the door behind them, and surveyed the party with a triumphant smile.
“I am afraid,” he said in his smoothest tones, “you have come too late.”
“I am afraid we have,” agreed Angel, and the lawyer looked at him suspiciously.
“I wrote you a letter,” he said. “Did you get it?”