Put the screws on at once.

THURL." Under the mask, Jimmie Dale's lips twitched.
"I think, Markel, you miserable hound," said he softly, "that God will forgive me for depriving you of a share of the profits.

Two hundred and ten thousand, I think it was, you said the sparklers cost." A curious little sound came from Jimmie Dale's lips--like a chuckle.
Jimmie Dale tossed the telegram back on the desk, moved on behind the desk, opened the door of the closet that had been metamorphosed into a vault--and the white light travelled slowly, searchingly, critically over the shining black-enamelled steel, the nickelled knobs, and dials of a safe that confronted him.
Jimmie Dale nodded at it--familiarly, grimly.
"It's number one-four-three-two-one, all right," he murmured.

"And one of the best we ever made.

Pretty tough.