“Come, get to work!” Brainard called out, on his knees before the trunk. “Cigars and explanations afterward!”
They slung the books and the packages of papers, which the reporter had neatly arranged, into the little trunk. Then they closed and locked it. Brainard unbolted the outer door.
“I wouldn’t make my exit by the front door,” the reporter advised. “I reckon you’d be spotted before you got to the street. There’s a back way, ain’t there?”
Brainard, thinking of the woman in the safe, hesitated.
“That’s how I brought up the trunk,” Peters said. “There’s nobody out there.”
Brainard opened the door to the inner office, and listened. It was quite still. Probably the woman had fainted.
“Come on!” he called, grasping one end of the trunk.
The reporter caught hold of the other, and Peters followed, tugging at the heavy bag. As they crossed the inner office, there was not a sound.
Brainard hesitated at the door, thinking that he must release the girl before he left; but as he stood before the safe, there was a squeal from within which indicated sufficient liveliness on the part of the stenographer. There would be time enough to attend to her after he had got his loot to the street. If she were released now, her temper might prove to be troublesome; so he joined the others on the landing, closing the little door behind him.
“The old man used to get out this way sometimes,” Peters observed.