When Harvey went to dinner in the evening he left a force of ten detectives guarding the offices. Jim, who had spent the afternoon with Harvey, superintended the placing of the men. Mallory, the lieutenant in charge, was ensconced in the Superintendent's office, and six of his assistants were with him, privileged to doze until called. One man stood in the hall, in a position to watch the stairway and the windows at each end; one patrolled the waiting room; and the ninth man strolled about in front of the building, loitering in the shadows and watching the street with trained eye. Before leaving the station Jim had a short talk with Mallory.

“Watch it awful close,” he said. “There's no telling what these people will do.”

“Very well, Mr. Weeks. They won't get ahead of us. But I should feel a bit safer if you'd let me put a man by the vault.”

Jim shook his head.

“There's such a thing as doing it too well, Mallory. And by all means I hope that you won't do that.”

He looked closely at the detective, who glanced away with a cautious nod.

That evening after dinner, Jim telephoned for Mattison, the Superintendent, and a long talk ensued in Jim's room at the hotel. Neither he nor Harvey wasted time in recounting the experiences of the day; they had too many plans for the night. As Jim had said, it was necessary to lose the books, and to lose them thoroughly. It was equally important that the action should not be confided to any ordinary employee. The fewer men that knew of it, the safer Jim would be, and so he finally decided to confine the information within its original limits.

“You two are lively on your feet,” he said. “And it is a good deal better for you to do it.”

“How about the detectives?” asked Mattison.

“You'll have to keep out of their way. Mallory won't trouble you so long as you keep still; but remember, every man, detective or not, that catches you, makes one more chance for evidence against us.”

“But isn't the building surrounded?”

“No. There's only one man outside, and he is in front. You can go through the alley and climb up to the window—it's only the second floor. Mallory has orders to keep out of the vault room. He's over in your office, Mattison.”

“I suppose,” suggested Harvey, “that unless we are actually caught with the books, we can throw a bluff about a tour of inspection or something of that sort.”

“And if we are caught,” said Mattison, “I suppose we can run like the devil.”

“You'll have to trust the details more or less to circumstances,” was Jim's reply.

“How about the books?” asked Harvey. “What shall we do with them?”

“Mattison had better take care of them. We can't bring them to the hotel, and anyhow, it is just as well if you and I, West, don't know anything about them. Then, when we want them again, it is a good deal easier for Mattison to find them than for any one else. Sort of accident, you know.”

It was finally agreed that before attempting to get the books, Harvey and Mattison should make a bona fide tour of inspection, by this means finding out where each man was located. Mattison reminded them that the watchman in the train shed was not to be overlooked, but they decided to chance him.

“There's one thing about it,” said Mattison, smiling. “If Johnson doesn't catch us, I can discharge him for incompetency.”

Shortly after midnight Harvey and Mattison started out. They found the station dark. As they tiptoed slowly along, edging close to the building, everything was silent. They reached the arched doorway, and were turning in when the glare of a bull's-eye lantern flashed into their eyes. Mattison laughed softly.

“That's business,” he said.

“What are you up to?” growled the man behind the lantern.

“Where's Mallory?” was Mattison's answer.

The man hesitated, then whistled softly. The whistle was echoed in the waiting room. In a few moments the door opened and a voice said, “What's up?”

“Two chaps want Mallory.”

Harvey and Mattison still stood on the stone step, looking into the lantern. They could see neither door nor man. After a short wait, evidently for scrutiny, the door closed. When it opened again, Mallory's voice said, “Close that light,” adding, “Is anything the matter, Mr. West?”

“No,” replied Harvey. “We're keeping an eye open. I see your men know their business. Have you had any trouble?”

“Everything is quiet. Do you care to come in?”

Harvey responded by entering, with Mattison following. As they crossed the waiting room, Mallory drew their attention to a shadow near a window.

“One of our boys,” he said in a low tone. “I put out all the lights. It makes it a good deal easier to watch.”

Up in Mattison's office the detectives were lounging about, some dozing, some conversing in low tones. The gas burned low, and the window shutters were covered with the rugs from the President's office, to keep the light from the street.

The two officials, after a glance about the room, returned to the hall. Harvey tried the door of each office, then returned to Mattison and Mallory. While they stood whispering,—for at night sound travels through an empty building,—there came the sound of a window sliding in its sash, apparently from the Treasurer's office.

Mallory paused to listen, then coolly turned and continued the conversation.

“What was that?” muttered Harvey.

The lieutenant affected not to hear the remark.

“Some one is getting into the building,” Harvey whispered. Mattison stepped lightly across the hall and, bending down, listened at the keyhole. He returned with an excited gesture.

“Don't you hear it?” he asked.

“No,” said Mallory. “I don't hear anything.”

“Are you deaf, man?”

“No, but I think I know when to hear.”

It occurred to Harvey that Jim had done his work well. But then, Jim's orders, however brief, were always understood. Harvey motioned the others to be silent, and tiptoed across the floor. He listened as Mattison had done, then passed on to the President's door. Cautiously he drew a bunch of keys from his pocket, and feeling for the right one he slipped it into the lock, threw open the door, and darted into the office. Mattison and the detective followed, stumbling over chairs, and colliding with the door to the inner office, which had closed after Harvey. In the dim light they could see two figures struggling in the passage by the vault. While Mattison sprang forward, Mallory quickly lighted the gas.

The light showed that Harvey had crowded the fellow up against the vault door. The newcomer was a medium-sized man, rough-faced, and poorly clad. On the floor was a small leather grip, which evidently had been kicked over in the scuffle, for part of a burglar's kit was scattered about the passage.

Mallory jerked the man's wrists together, slipped on the handcuffs, and led him out into the hall. In a moment the detective returned.

“I left him with the boys, for the present. Case of common safe-cracking.”

“Do you think so?” said Harvey, adjusting his cuffs, and moving the strange tools with his foot. “If he wanted money, I should think he would have tackled the vault downstairs.”

Mallory stooped, and replaced the kit in the bag. Suddenly he said,—

“Raise your foot, Mr. West.”

Harvey did so, and the detective arose with a dirty paper in his hand. He looked it over, and handed it to the others. It was a rough pencil sketch of the station building, showing the alley, the window, the Treasurer's office, and the vault.

“What do you think of it?” asked Mallory.

Harvey turned it over. A second glance showed it to be the front of an envelope, for part of an end flap remained. The upper left-hand corner had been torn off, evidently to remove the return card, but so hastily that a part of the card remained. Straightening it out, and holding it up to the light, Harvey read:—

Mallory looked over his shoulder, and exclaimed:—

“That's easy. Hotel Blakesleigh, Manchester, Illinois.”

“How does that help you?” asked Mattison.

Harvey lowered the paper.

“Don't you see,” he replied. “There are two good hotels here, the Illinois and the Blakesleigh. McNally is not at the Illinois.” He turned to the detective. “You'd better let the fellow go, Mallory.”

“Why?”

“Because it is the easiest way to handle it. Keep the tools, though.”

“But I don't understand, Mr. West.”

“Well, there is no use in discussing it. We won't prefer charges.”

“But the man was caught in the act.”

“He didn't get any thing, poor devil. No; we're after bigger game than this. We have enough for evidence. And don't sweat him.”

“This is too deep for me, Mr. West. Surely there's no harm in questioning him, now that I've got him.”

“Can't help it, Mallory. When that man reports to his employer, I want him to say that we suspect nothing beyond his attempt to crack the safe.”

The detective turned away with a frown.

“I suppose you know your business, Mr. West.”

Harvey and Mattison followed him to the hall, closing the door after them. They said good night, and left the building.

“See here, West,” said Mattison, when they were fairly around the corner, “wasn't that a little hasty? It wouldn't hurt to keep the man out of the way.”

“No, I don't agree with you. What McNally has done so far will be upheld by his judge. And another thing, Mattison; just at present, it isn't to our interest to get an investigation under way. We're going to do the same thing ourselves.”

Slowly and cautiously they slipped around the next square, and, by returning through the alley, brought up in the shadow of a building, across the street from the train shed. Here they waited to reconnoitre. The night was clear, and the arc-lamp at the corner threw an intermittent glare down the street. As they looked, a long shadow appeared on the sidewalk. Mattison gripped Harvey's arm, and drew him back into the alley. They crouched behind a pile of boxes.

“It's like stealing apples,” whispered Harvey. “When the old man gets after you with a stick.”

“Ssh!”

The footsteps sounded loud on the stone walk. Then a helmeted figure passed the alley, and went on its way.

Waiting until the sound died in the distance, the two stepped to the walk, looked hastily toward each corner, and ran across the street. Once in the station alley, they paused again.

“Look!” said Harvey, pointing; “he left the ladder.”

Sure enough, a light ladder reached from the ground nearly to a second-story window, which stood open.

“Well, here we are,” Mattison whispered. “How do you feel?”

“First-class. Better let me go,—I know the combination.”

Mattison stood at the foot of the ladder, and steadied it while Harvey stealthily climbed to the window. Drawing himself into the passage, the receiver set to work on the vault lock. He turned the knob very slowly, guarding against the slightest noise, but the faint light that came through the window was not enough to bring out the numbers. Harvey leaned back and considered. The scratching of a match would almost surely be heard by the detectives. He leaned out the window, and beckoned. Mattison came creeping up, and Harvey explained in a few whispered sentences. “Go back and look up the street,” he concluded. “We've got to light it outside the building.”

While Mattison was gone, Harvey felt his way through the Treasurer's office and paused to listen; then he drew up a chair which stood near the door, and climbing up, slipped off his coat and hung it over the half-open transom. Then he closed the transom, and the room was practically light proof. With the same caution he reached the floor, and tiptoed back to the window, where he found Mattison waiting on the ladder.

“All right,” whispered the Superintendent. “Are you ready?”

“Yes.”

Mattison struck a match on his trousers leg, shielded it with his hands, then handed it to Harvey, who kneeled at the door and began to whirl the knob. Before he was through the light was close to his fingers, and he held another match to the flame, taking care to light the wrong end. At last the lock clicked, and Harvey opened the door a few inches, then he whispered to Mattison, “If I whistle, you get down and I'll drop the books.”

He swung the door open, but stopped bewildered. Before him was the steel gate with the clanging bell. However, the risk must be run, so motioning Mattison to climb down he drew out his keys, and with a match ready in his hand he jerked the gate open and dashed into the vault. Striking the match, he quickly located the books he needed, carried them to the window and pitched them out. Then he heard a thud on the door. He threw one leg over the sill, but stopped—his coat was still on the transom. Some one was struggling to break in the door now, for it shook. Harvey sprang back, mounted the chair, and tore down his coat, tumbling to the floor, chair and all, with a clatter. A voice shouted, “Open the door, or I'll shoot!” but Harvey gave no heed. He ran to the window and literally fell down the ladder, filling his hands with slivers. There came a crash from above, and a muttered oath, and Harvey knew that the door had given way. He gave the ladder a shove, and as it fell upon the cobblestones with a great noise, he turned and sped up the alley after a dark figure that was already near to the corner.

He caught up with Mattison in the next block, and relieved him of half the load. Then for a long time they ran and doubled, fugitives from half a dozen detectives and a few lumbering policemen. At last Mattison turned up a dark alley in the residence district. Coming to a board fence, he threw the books over, then climbed after. Harvey followed, and found himself on a tennis court. Mattison led the way through the yard, past a dark house, and across the street to a roomy frame residence.

“Come in with me,” he said to Harvey. “You can't go back to the hotel now.”

Harvey laughed nervously and nodded. Mattison opened the door with his night key, and with the heavy books in their arms the two burglars stole up to bed.