Only the strained, intent look on their faces gave any indication of how the news had been received.
“It’s old Reale’s money,” he continued; “he’s left the lot to four of us. Massey’s dead, so that makes three.”
There was no need to explain who was Reale, who Massey. A week ago Massey had himself sat in that room and discussed with Connor the cryptic verse that played so strange a part in the old man’s will. He had been, in a way, an honorary member of the “Borough Lot.”
Connor continued. He spoke slowly, waiting for inspiration. A judicious lie might save the situation. But no inspiration came, and he found his reluctant tongue speaking the truth.
“The money is stored in one safe. Oh, it’s no use looking like that, Tony, you might just as well try to crack the Bank of England as that crib. Yes, he converted every cent of a million and three-quarters into hard, solid cash—banknotes and gold. This he put into his damned safe, and locked. And he has left by the terms of his will a key.”
Connor was a man who did not find speaking an easy matter. Every word came slowly and hesitatingly, as though the speaker of the story were loth to part with it.
“The key is here,” he said slowly.
There was a rustle of eager anticipation as he dipped his hand in his waistcoat pocket. When he withdrew his fingers, they contained only a slip of paper carefully folded.
“The lock of the safe is one of Reale’s inventions; it opens to no key save this.” He shook the paper before them, then lapsed into silence.
“Well,” broke in Bat impatiently, “why don’t you open the safe? And what has the girl to do with it?”