Recovering himself, he stooped down to pick up the heavy ebony ruler used by old Crampton, and polished by rubs of his coat-tail till it shone.
Harry felt giddy now with excitement, but he went to the safe door, felt that it was swung open, and groaning to himself, “Too late, too late!” he bent his head; felt for the drawer.
Empty!
“You scoundrel!” he groaned; “but he shall give up every note, and—”
Once more he felt as if paralysed, for as he turned from the safe he knew that he was not alone in the office.
Caught in the act! Burglary—the open safe—the notes gone, who would believe in his innocence?
He could think of nothing else, as he heard Van Heldre’s voice in the darkness—one fierce angry utterance—“Who’s there?”
“He does not know me,” flashed through Harry Vine’s brain.
“You villain!” cried Van Heldre, springing at him.
It was the instinctive act of one smitten by terror, despair, shame, and the desire to escape—a mad act, but prompted by the terrible position. As Van Heldre sprang at him and grasped at his breast, Harry Vine struck with all his might, the heavy rule fell with a sickening crash upon the unguarded head, he felt a sudden tug, and with a groan his father’s friend sank senseless on the floor.