"It's quite green," she whispered. "Recently broken."
"He has killed--Monsieur----" she halted, her face white as paper.
"Your little Yankee--!" He shrugged uneasily. "Perhaps. Wait. I must see."
He bent forward with the lamp and examined the nickel knob and handle, turned the light down, then went upon his knees and put his face close to the stone floor.
"There are many footprints in the dust,--one small, one with high heels, Zoya."
"Tanya Korasov?"
"Who else?"
"She and Khodkine--but I don't understand----"
Max Liederman had settled down before the door of the vault with a business-like air, unwrapping the canvas covering of his tools, and examining the knob, listening intently. Then he threw off his coat and rolled up the sleeves of his shirt and set to work while Zoya, her hand trembling, held the light.
"Could they have killed him--do you think?" she asked again anxiously.