honest—never had a chance to steal anything worth taking!” He added more seriously, to quiet the sick man, who seemed to be laboring under excitement, “Tell me what you want done, and I’ll do my best to put it through for you.”

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, p. 13write—write it down,” he went on, as Brainard leaned forward.

p. 13

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?”

“Take everything.”

“What shall I do with the stuff? Bring it here to New York?” the young man inquired, with growing curiosity.

p. 14The sick man’s blue eyes stared at him steadily, with a look of full intelligence.

p. 14

“I shall be dead then,” he mumbled.

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