Having rented a vacant store adjoining the building in which the bank was located, they opened an oyster saloon, but rather discouraged than encouraged trade.
With the fall of night they would descend to the cellar, and until break of day would work at cutting through the foundation wall.
It was thick and strongly built, but this they had expected, and were prepared for. Digging out the mortar between the bricks, first one and then another was pried out, until at last only one layer of four inches in thickness remained, which a single blow from the blunt end of a crowbar would knock out.
This was accomplished on Friday night.
They now quit work until the following night, when they intended entering, knowing that in all probability they would have until Monday morning to "tap" the vault and safe.
But, safe as they felt themselves, a pair of keen eyes were upon them.
They were those of Shadow.
Late on Sunday afternoon a note was handed me. It was from the mysterious being, whom I felt sure was none other than Mat Morris.
The note was very brief.
It simply said: