Already Griff was by the safe, the combination figures on the slip in his hand, the dial of the safe door twirling and clicking.
“Here—what are you doing, Griff?” Bob cried out in dismay.
With a quick glance Griff measured them. His face was white, his jaw was set, his whole attitude was that of a terrified, trembling young man who had determined on a course he knew to be wrong but which circumstances would not allow him to avoid.
“Don’t!” exclaimed Curt.
“You daren’t!” corrected Al. “Your father has stolen the books, but you shan’t——”
The safe door was wrenched open. Bob started forward, Curt at his side, to catch Griff’s hand, to prevent this thing he felt he had to do. His fear of his father’s anger was greater than his dread of the boys, it seemed.
His hand on the packet of bills, Bob tried to stop him. Griff, with a scowl and a wicked word, kicked Bob’s shin, avoided Curt’s grasp, and stood back, his face working.
There was an interruption.
“Listen!” Al, nearest the door, called the word. They were halted, frozen into statues with tense poses and straining ears.
A step sounded in the hall.