Lighting a cigarette, he watched them burn until the last glow had gone from the last charred scrap; then he crunched and scattered them with the brass-handled fender brush, and, retracing his steps across the room, flung back a portiere from where it hung before a little alcove, and dropped on his knees in front of a round, squat, barrel-shaped safe--one of his own design and planning in the years when he had been with his father.
His slim, sensitive fingers played for an instant among the knobs and dials that studded the door, guided, it seemed by the sense of touch alone--and the door swung open.

Within was another door, with locks and bolts as intricate and massive as the outer one.

This, too, he opened; and then from the interior took out a short, thick, rolled-up leather bundle tied together with thongs.

He rose from his knees, closed the safe, and drew the portiere across the alcove again.

With the bundle under his arm, he glanced sharply around the room, listened intently, then, unlocking the door that gave on the hall, he switched off the lights and went to his dressing room, that was on the same floor.