No chance.
Another.
Everything bare as stone and soap could keep it.
The third flight—my knees began to tremble, and not with climbing. The call came from this floor. But I ran up a fourth just on the chance, and there in a corner was a fire hatchet strapped to the wall. Behind that hatchet Mrs. Kingdon's diamonds might lie snug till evening. I put the ends of my fingers first in the little crack to make sure the little bag wouldn't drop to the floor, and then dived into my pocket and—
And there behind me, stealthily coming up the last turn of the stairs was Mr. George Moriway!
Don't you hate a soft-walking man, Mag? That cute fellow was cuter than the old Major himself, and had followed me every inch of the way.
"There's something loose with this hatchet, sir," I said, innocently looking down at him.
"Oh, there is? What an observing little fellow you are! Never mind the hatchet; just tell me what number you were sent to answer."
"Number?" I repeated, as though I couldn't see why he wanted to know. "Why—431."
"Not much, my boy—331."