A moonbeam filtered in between the edge of the drawn shade and the edge of the window.

It struggled across the floor in a wavering path, strayed over the desk, and died away, shadowy and formless, against the blackness of the opened recess door, against the blackness of the great steel safe, the blackness of a huddled form crouched against it.

Only now and then, in a strange, projected, wraithlike effect, the moon ray glinted timidly on the tip of a nickel dial, and, ghostlike, disclosed a human hand.
Upstairs, Markel coughed again.

Then from the safe a whisper, heavy-breathed as from great exertion: "MISSED IT!" The dial whirled with faint, musical, little metallic clicks; then began to move slowly again, very, very slowly.

The moonbeam, as though petulant at its own abortive attempt to satisfy its curiosity, retreated back across the floor, and faded away.
Blackness! Time passed.