Chapter IV.

       The Accomplice

       Table of Contents

      It was exactly one minute to twelve as Stranway drew up at the curb at the corner of Wall and William Streets, and, alighting from the car, hastily lifted the hood, and made a pretence of peering anxiously at his engine.

      A man's form, black, shadowy, came around the corner. The man coughed slightly, then paused nervously and uncertainly. As far as the darkness would permit of identification, the man answered to the description Charlebois had given of Steener.

      "I say!" called Stranway deliberately. "I seem to have met with a bit of an accident. Will you give me a hand for a moment?"

      The man came forward—and the glare from the right-hand lamp of the car fell full upon him.

      "All right!" said Stranway calmly. "You're looking for Kenneth Gordon, aren't you?"

      "Yes," said the man quickly. He stepped nearer, and stared into Stranway's face. "Have you got it?" he asked hoarsely. "I'm Steener."

      "Yes; I've got it," Stranway answered quietly.

      "Let me see it, then," whispered Steener, with nervous eagerness. "Let me see it."

      Stranway eyed the other speculatively, curiously, for an instant. Steener's face was flushed, his eyes seemed to burn feverishly, and the muscles around his lips were twitching noticeably. The man was evidently in a highly overwrought state of nervous tension.

      "Do you think it is wise—here?" Stranway asked dryly.

      "I don't know—and I don't care!" Steener blurted out. "My God, I'm risking everything I've got on earth for this! It's a lot of money for—for what you get, and I've got to know it's straight. I've got to know before I move a finger. And it's got to be in cash. That was the agreement."

      "Very well," agreed Stranway coolly. He glanced up and down the street. No one was in sight. He reached quickly into his pocket, took out the envelope, turned back the flap, and allowed the ray of the headlight to play for a moment on the crisp, new yellow notes within. Then, as quickly, he slipped the envelope back again into his pocket. "Now," he said briskly, "if you're satisfied, we'll——"

      "It's true," said Steener in a tense monotone, as though speaking to himself. "It's true. I—I was afraid there——"

      "Let's go!" Stranway cut in sharply, a sudden anxiety sweeping over him to get this part of the night's business through and done with. The other impressed him with little confidence as a companion to depend upon in a pinch or a tight hole where nerve and coolness were the first requisites. As a matter of fact, the man appeared to be badly frightened already.

      "Yes; let's go!" echoed Steener uneasily. "It's just around the corner. Let's go, and—and get the business over."

      He started forward, and Stranway fell into step beside him. A moment later they had entered a large building; and while Steener fumbled with a key at the door of a suite of ground-floor offices at the left of the entrance, Stranway, with a quick glance, appraised his surroundings. A single incandescent lighted up a short corridor dimly, and disclosed a rotunda beyond with its semi-circular rows of metal elevator doors—but that was all. Both corridor and rotunda were empty.

      Steener opened the door softly; and, as Stranway, following the other, stepped over the threshold, he could just faintly decipher a part of the firm's name, "—— K. Poindexter," upon the frosted-glass panels. Steener closed the door noiselessly behind them, and, with a muttered caution to keep close and not stumble over anything, led the way forward.

      It was very dark. Stranway could scarcely make out the form of his guide in front of him. Numerous objects, desks presumably, discernible only by a deeper shade of black than the surroundings, were on every hand. They were evidently in the large general office of the firm.

      Presently Stranway heard Steener open another door. And then he felt Steener's hand pluck at his arm in an agitated way.

      "We're here." Steener's voice was unsteady. "This is Mr. Poindexter's private office. We're—we're here."

      "Yes; all right!" snapped Stranway. His environment, the purpose that had brought him here, and most of all Steener's panicky state of nerves, had begun to have a creepy, uncomfortable effect upon him. "Yes; all right!" he snapped again. "Don't lose your grip! Where's the stock and the proxy?"

      "In the safe—in Mr. Poindexter's private safe." Steener was chattering now. "Here, you take this!" He thrust an electric flashlight into Stranway's hand. "I—I brought it because we wouldn't dare turn on a light which might show from the outside. Here, come this way." He caught Stranway's arm again and pulled him across the room. "Now—now switch it on."

      A round white ray of light stole from between Stranway's fingers, and played upon the nickelled knob and dial of a small safe. Steener got down on his knees and began to work at the combination; but again and again, as he turned the knob, his hand, trembling violently, kept over-running the numbers. The minutes passed, two, three, four of them—abortively—and with each one the tension grew.

      Stranway could hear his own heart-beats now. It was getting him, this black shape kneeling there, fingers knocking agitatedly against the rim of the dial. It seemed to introduce something sinister into the silence itself.

      Steener brushed his hand across his forehead with a helpless gesture.

      "I—I can't get it," he said thickly. "You—you try. I'll give you the combination."

      Impatient, contemptuous of the other, but angry also at his own sense of uneasiness, Stranway in turn dropped to his knees before the safe as Steener edged away to make room for him. And then, still holding the flashlight himself, the fingers of Stranway's right hand closed on the knob.

      "Go on!" he breathed.

      "Yes, give me a chance," said Steener heavily. "Now, one turn to the left, then to forty-five."

      "One left—forty-five." The dial spun under Stranway's quick, sure fingers. "Go on."

      "Two to the right, then eleven." Steener was mopping at his brow with his hand.

      Again the dial spun.

      "Two right—eleven," repeated Stranway quickly. "Go on, man—go on!"

      "One turn to the—my God, listen!" Steener grasped suddenly, frenziedly, at Stranway's arm. "Put out the light! Put out the light!" he choked. "Listen!"

      In an instant the light was out, and Stranway was on his feet. He felt the blood ebb from his face. Tense,