"And have the house about our ears?" Wolvert sneered, but the other paid no heed.
He had caught up a small silk prayer rug and, wrapping it about the vase, laid it upon the floor. Then, raising a sausage-like roll of cloth heavily weighed which he took from his bag, he struck it a blow with all the force of his brawny arm behind it. There was a dull thud and a soft, shivery tinkle, and when the rug was unwrapped a heap of jagged, richly-colored fragments was revealed. It was, as Wolvert had said, the finishing touch to a scene of havoc which seemingly only a hand-to-hand struggle could have wrought.
"Now for the rough stuff." Wolvert rose from his knees and with one quick, muscular jerk, ripped his dressing gown from thigh to shoulder, tearing one sleeve loose. Then he coolly turned his back to Mike and crossed his wrists behind him. "Tie them good and tight, Mike. We don't want to fake this part of the game."
Mike obeyed with alacrity, twisting the cord until Betty could see the slender wrists writhe.
"Now my ankles." Wolvert gritted his teeth, and in the light from the lantern beads of perspiration glittered on his forehead. He knelt again and then lay flat upon his back, facing the safe, his outstretched feet almost within the aperture.
Mike lashed them firmly and turning to his bag, produced a sponge and a small phial with which he approached his victim, grinning slyly.
"Easy on that!" warned Wolvert. "Don't put me out, Mike. Use just enough to leave the scent on my hair and shirt."
"I hate to beat it without my kit." Mike cast a reluctant eye on the bag at his feet. "Prettiest set of tools I ever had!"
"You won't need it again after we've turned this trick," responded his co-conspirator. "It's got to look as though you were scared off, you know. Don't forget to leave the chloroform too. Come on with it, I'm ready."
"Remember, Two Forty-seven Porter Street. I'll wait till midnight and if you don't show up by then I'll clear for the old hang-out in Baltimore. Here goes, pleasant dreams!"