"Indeed, I could not say."
"We can say. He has still three or four millions in stocks and bonds. What he took to the bottom of the sea with him was his available cash."
"I know nothing about his finances. I was his butler and valet."
Vroon nodded. "Come, men; it is time we took ourselves off. Put things in order; close the safe. You poor jackals, I always have to watch you for outbreaks of vandalism. Off with you!"
He was the last to leave. He stared long and searchingly at Jones, who felt the burning gaze but refused to meet it lest the plotter see the fire in his. The door closed. For fully an hour Jones listened but did not stir. They were really gone. He pressed his feet to the floor and began to hitch the chair toward the table. Half-way across the intervening space he crumpled in the chair, almost completely exhausted. He let a quarter of an hour pass, then made the final attack upon the remaining distance. He succeeded in reaching the desk, but he could not have stirred an inch farther. The hair on his head was damp with sweat and his hands were clammy.
When he felt strength returning he lifted the telephone off the hook with his teeth.
"Central, central! Call the police to come to this number at once; Hargreave's house, Riverdale. Tell them to break in."
After what seemed an age of waiting to the exhausted prisoner, with crashing and smashing of doors, the police appeared in the room.
"Where's your gag?" demanded the first officer to reach Jones' side.
"There wasn't any."