“Get a tool of some sort. We’ll have to draw them.”
With a claw hammer Scanlon pulled the nails without much difficulty. Then the two descended into the regions below. Ashton-Kirk carried an electric torch, which shot a small, searching column of light ahead through the gloom.
“It beats a lamp or a lantern,” said Bat, his mind going back to the morning upon which their visit to the cellars was greeted with a volley of shots. “If there are any volatile parties hanging around, they can’t get such a fair slam at us.”
The rays of the torch danced along the floor, the ceiling, the walls and into corners. Satisfied that there were no prowlers in the vaults, the light ceased its erratic flashing; it now became intent, and fixed itself upon some small spaces for quite long periods of time.
“Again the floor seems to attract him,” thought the big man. “Footprints and such.”
But the crime specialist seemed annoyed.
“There has been a great deal of tramping up and down by all of us,” said he. “Quite a number of very definite impressions are to be found in the dust, but——” he stopped suddenly, the beam of light held to a place in the floor, fixedly, and his breath drew in with a sharpness that told of a discovery.
“What is it?” asked Bat, anxiously.
“Look!”
The crime specialist pointed to what appeared to be a long streak in the dust upon the vault floor. It was broken here and there by footmarks, but seemed to continue for some distance outside the radius of the light.