Foot by foot they made their way noiselessly toward the open door, expecting every instant to see their quarry step forth and confront them, ready to prevent him fighting his way to liberty. They listened, too, for the sound of feet in the room behind them that would tell of the arrival of the police, but the sound of feet did not come.
And now, at last, they were within six feet of the open door, staring into the blackness of the vault, from which came not the slightest sound. Verbeck felt his heart pounding at his ribs like a trip hammer as they waited. The seconds passed.
Then Riley spoke in a low, tense tone, yet his voice seemed to roar through the place:
“Come out, Mr. Black Star! We’ve got you!”
Silence their answer!
“Come out! Why delay the game?”
Still no answer. Riley reached out and touched Verbeck, touched Muggs, a voiceless command for action. They crept forward again, Verbeck to one side, Muggs on the other, Riley directly before the door. Now they were in the shadows, and between them and the door was but a faint streak of light that came through the windows from the street—a streak of light they would have to cross to reach the vault door.
What would happen when they crossed that streak of light? Riley imagined he knew. Verbeck felt sure that he knew. Muggs already imagined he heard the cracking of an automatic, grunts of pain, faced the whirlwind charge of a desperate, cornered man, fighting his way to freedom.
“Come out!” Riley commanded again. “Come—or we’ll come in after you!”
Still no answer. Riley crouched and held the torch high above his head in his left hand, ready to touch the button and send a shaft of light into the vault. In his right hand he held the automatic, safety catch off, ready to fire on the instant.