Craig’s face was a puzzle for an instant, and then he sank back into his seat and mopped his forehead, patting it with his handkerchief.
“Thank God!” he gasped.
“Well, we’re through,” said Jamison. “Not much of a case, this. You can get your bonds in the morning at the police station.”
He strolled out the door with the policeman and room-clerk. Craig watched the door close behind them and sprang to his feet in a noiseless bound.
“Good God!” he muttered, desperately. “How—how—”
In a catlike leap he sprang to the cheap bureau in the room. With a jerk he pulled out an empty drawer. He stared at it for an instant, and then brought it down with a crash upon his knee, splintering the bottom utterly. The real bottom of the drawer came out in fragments, and a layer of veneer that fitted neatly over it was twisted and wrecked as well. And tumbling out upon the floor were the eighty neatly engraved bonds, fallen from their hiding place in the neatly contrived false bottom, just where Craig had placed them two hours before. And yet—
“I thought so,” said Jamison’s voice wearily. “It was a sloppy job.”
There was an infinitely bright flash and the room was full of smoke.
IV
“You’re mugged, now,” observed Jamison. “I guess a flash-light picture will go well in court....”