the tweezers lifted out one of the gray-coloured, diamond-shaped seals.
Holding the seal with the tweezers, he moistened the gummed side with
his lips, then laid it on a handkerchief which he took from his pocket,
and clapped the handkerchief against the front of the safe, sticking
the seal conspicuously into place. Jimmie Dale's insignia bore no finger
prints. The microscopes and magnifying glasses at headquarters had many
a time regretfully assured the police of that fact.

And now his hands and fingers seemed to work like lightning. Into the
soft iron bit a drill--bit in and through--bit in and through again.
It was dark, pitch black--and silent. Not a sound, save the quick, dull
rasp of the ratchet--like the distant gnawing of a mouse! Jimmie Dale
worked fast--another hole went through the face of the old-fashioned
safe--and then suddenly he straightened up to listen, every faculty
tense, alert, and strained, his body thrown a little forward. WHAT WAS
THAT!

From the alleyway leading from the street without, through which he
himself had come, sounded the stealthy crunch of feet. Motionless in the
utter darkness, Jimmie Dale listened--there was a scraping noise in the
rear--someone was climbing the fence that he had climbed!

In an instant the tools in Jimmie Dale's hands disappeared into their
respective pockets beneath his vest--and the sensitive fingers shot to
the dial on the safe.

"Too bad," muttered Jimmie Dale plaintively to himself. "I could have
made such an artistic job of it--I swear I could have cut Carruthers'
profile in the hole in less than no time--to open it like this is really
taking the poor old thing at a disadvantage."