The sick man’s eyes expressed relief, and then his brow contracted, as if he were summoning all his powers in a final effort to make a clogged brain do his urgent will.
“Lis-lis-listen,” he murmured. “No—no, write—write it down,” he went on, as Brainard leaned forward.
Brainard looked about his bare room for paper, but in vain. He felt in his pockets for a stray envelope, then drew from his overcoat a roll of manuscript. He glanced at it dubiously for a moment, then tore off the last sheet, which had on one side a few lines of typewriting. With a gesture of indifference, he turned to the sick man and prepared to take his message.
“All ready,” he remarked. “I can take it in shorthand, if you want.”
“Sev-en, thir-ty-one, and four. Sev-en, thir-tyone, and four. Sev-en, thir-ty-one, and four,” he repeated almost briskly.
Brainard looked at him inquiringly, and the stranger whispered the explanation: “Combi-na-tion pri-vate safe—understand?” Brainard nodded.
“Where?”
“Office—San Francisco.”
The young man whistled.
“That’s a good ways off! What do you want me to do there?”