He tiptoed to his desk and with shaking fingers gripped the
revolver that lay in a drawer.
The cashier stood there for a moment, moistening his dry lips with
his tongue and trying to swallow the lump that rose to his throat and
threatened to stop his breathing. He braced himself for the plunge,
then slowly trod across the room to the inner, locked door. The palsied
fingers of his left hand could scarce turn the key.
It seemed to him that the night was alive with the noise he made in
turning the lock and opening the door. The hinges grated and the floor
squeaked beneath the fall of his foot as he stood at the threshold.
Two men were in front of the wire grating which protected the big safe
that filled the alcove to the right. One held a file and the other a
candle. Their blank, masked faces were turned toward Milton, and each
of them covered him with a weapon.
"W-what are you doing here?" quavered the cashier.
"Drop that gun," came the low, sharp command from one of them.
Under the menace of their revolvers the heart of Milton pumped water
instead of blood. The strength oozed out of him. His body swayed and he
shut his eyes. A hand groped for the casement of the door to steady him.
Pages:
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241