"We haven't done yet," replied Max more soberly, though his voice was confident enough. "Here, I'm not going to examine all these papers and documents now. I'm going to cram the whole lot into the bag and be off. We can see what our capture is when we get back to our room."
"Right you are. By George, though, what's that?"
Both stood stock-still and listened. The sound of voices and the tramp of feet upon the stairs was plainly audible.
Max darted an angry look at Dale. In the excitement of the opening of the safe the latter had forgotten that he was on guard at the window, and no doubt this was the result. "You see, Dale?" he cried sharply.
"I'm sorry, old man," replied Dale miserably.
"No matter. Cram these things into the bag while I lock the safe. Mind, not a sound!"
The safe locked, Max sprang noiselessly to the door, replaced the cut-out panels and secured them in position, against anything but a blow or strong pressure, by two or three sharp nails pressed in with his fingers. Flight was out of the question, but it might be possible to make good their escape later on if they could only hide themselves successfully for a little while. For a hiding-place Max had no need to look. He had played at hide-and-seek in that very room with his sister years ago, too often to forget that the best shelter was inside the well of his father's—now the manager's—desk.
The panels replaced, Max knelt down and gently blew away the tell-tale sawdust. Then he turned and eagerly scanned the room. Dale had already packed the bag, and was looking vainly round for a hiding-place.
"Under here—quick!" cried Max, indicating the desk, and in Dale scrambled, dragging the precious bag after him. There was only one thing left which needed to be disposed of, and that was the lantern. Max knew that if he blew it out and hid it under the desk the smell would inevitably betray them. Therefore he took it to the fire-place, blew it out close under the chimney, and instantly thrust it as far up as his arm would reach and lodged it there.
The noise of voices and the tramp of feet had, during the few moments that these preparations had taken, been growing stronger, and the lantern had scarcely been disposed of before the approaching persons halted at the door. The rattle of keys, as someone—no doubt the manager—drew a bunch from his pocket, could now be distinguished, and as Max crawled in under the desk, and packed himself in on top of Dale, the key turned in the lock.