The iron door creaked faintly as he drew it open, and then began to feel about hastily, and with the perspiration streaming from his forehead. Books in plenty, but no notes.
With an exclamation of impatience, he drew out a little match-box, struck a light, and saw that there was an iron drawer low down. The flame went out, but he had seen enough, and stooping he dragged out the drawer, thrust in his hand, which came in contact with a leaden paper weight, beneath which, tied round with tape, was a bundle of notes.
“Hah!” he muttered with a half laugh, “I can’t stop to count you. Yes, I must, or they’ll miss ’em. It’s tempting though. Humph! tied both—”
Thud!
One heavy blow on the back of Victor Pradelle’s head which sent him staggering forward against the door of the safe: then he felt in a confused, half-stunned way that something had been snatched from his hand. A dead silence followed, during which his head swam, but he had sufficient sense left to totter across the outer office, and along the passage to the garden yard.
How he got outside into the little lane he could not afterwards remember, his next recollection being of sitting down on the steps by the water-side bathing his face.
Five minutes before Harry Vine had been in that very spot, from which he turned to go home.
“Let him say what he likes,” muttered the young man; “I must have been mad to listen to him. Why—”
Harry Vine stopped short, for a thought had struck him like a flash.
How it was—why he should have such a suspicion he could not tell; but a terrible thought had seemed to burn into his brain. Then he felt paralysed as he shivered, and uttering an ejaculation full of rage and anger, he started off at a run towards Van Heldre’s place.