Mr. Starr grunted.
There was a passage at the right of the inner safe. The light from the lamp outside shed dim radiance. Britt descended a short flight of cement steps, and Starr, following groping with his feet, realized that the way led under the floor of the corridor. He was obliged to crouch almost double in order to avoid the ceiling.
There was another flight of stairs leading up to the floor level.
The two men, mounting the stairs, heard groans.
Vona, undeterred by her treatment, had followed closely on Starr's heels. She urged them to hurry, calling hysterically.
Again the man ahead fumbled at what seemed to be solid wall. Again he was able to open a door of concrete.
But Britt, when he was through the narrow door in the lead, was blocked and stopped. He lighted a match. One leaf of the double doors of the inner safe of the bank vault was flung back across the narrow passage. He dropped the stub of the match and pushed. The door moved only a few inches; it was opposed by something on the other side. The president lighted another match and held it while he peered over the door; there was a space between the top of the door and the ceiling. “It's Vaniman,” he reported, huskily. “He's lying against this door. I can't push it any further. He's wedged against the front of the vault.”
Then Starr lighted a match. He noted that the space above the door was too narrow for his bulk or Britt's.
“Go tell the guard to send in a chap that's slim and spry,” the examiner commanded the girl. “We've got to boost somebody in over that door.”
“I'll go. I must go. I'm bound and determined to go!” she insisted, pulling at him, trying to crowd past him.