"Oh, God, no!"
"There's a great heap of gathered leaves there—see! Think! Six hundred thousand pounds!"
"No, no! If one of us got hurt—"
"Perhaps you're right. There's nothing for it but to drop the box and collect it when we get out. 'Sh! did you hear something just now?"
Lancaster started and caught his head a stunning blow on the sash. At the same time he inadvertently knocked the torch from the fingers of Bullard, who was going to flash it into the darkness behind them.
"Idiot!" muttered Bullard. "Don't move till I fetch the box." He stole across the floor, feeling his way.
Lancaster, nursing his head, waited—waited until a gasped expletive reached his ears—
"Damnation!" Then—"Quick! Close the window, draw the curtain!" The speaker blundered to the electric switch.
Fumblingly, Lancaster obeyed, then turned to face a blaze of light, Bullard, white with fury and dismay, and the writing table with nothing on it.