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Page 9
He was in a large apartment, beautifully furnished. Books and pictures
abounded, but these did not interest him, although if he had made
further examination he might have found things worthy of his attention
even there. It so happened that the light bracket to which he had
blundered, or had been led, was immediately over a large wall safe.
Evidently it had been placed there for the purpose of illuminating the
safe door. His eyes told him that instantly. This was greater fortune
than he expected. A wall safe in a house like that must contain things
of value.
Marking the position of the combination knob, he turned out the light
and waited again. The quiet of the night continued unbroken. A swift
inspection convinced him that the lock was only an ordinary combination.
With proper--or improper--tools he could have opened it easily. Even
without tools, such were his delicately trained ear and his wonderfully
trained fingers that he thought he could feel and hear the combination.
He knelt down by the knob and began to turn it slowly, listening and
feeling for the fall of the tumblers. Several times he almost got it,
only to fail at the end, but by repeated trials and unexampled patience,
his heart beating like a trip-hammer the while, he finally mastered the
combination and opened the safe door.
In his excitement when he felt the door move he swung it outward
sharply. It had not been used for some time evidently and the hinges
creaked. He checked the door and listened again. Was he to be balked
after so much success? He was greatly relieved at the absence of sound.
It was quite dark in the room. He could see nothing but the safe. He
reached his hand in and discovered it was filled with bulky articles
covered with some kind of cloth, silver evidently.
He decided that he must have a look and again he switched on the light.
Yes, his surmise had been correct. The safe was filled with silver.
There was a small steel drawer in the middle of it. He had a broad
bladed jack-knife in his pocket and at the risk of snapping the blade he
forced the lock and drew out the drawer. It was filled with papers. He
lifted the first one and stood staring at it in astonishment, for it
was an envelope which bore his name, written by a hand which had long
since mouldered away in the dust of a grave.
V
Before he could open the envelope, there broke on his ear a still small
voice, not that of conscience, not that of God; the voice of a
child--but does not God speak perhaps as often through the lips of
childhood as in any other way--and conscience, too?
"Are you Santa Claus?" the voice whispered in his ear.
"Crackerjack" dropped the paper and turned like a flash, knife upraised
in his clenched hand, to confront a very little girl and a still smaller
boy staring at him in open-eyed astonishment, an astonishment which was
without any vestige of alarm. He looked down at the two and they looked
up at him, equal bewilderment on both sides.
"I sought dat Santy Claus tame down de chimney," said the younger of the
twain, whose pajamas bespoke the nascent man.
"In all the books he has a long white beard. Where's yours?" asked the
coming woman.
This innocent question no less than the unaffected simplicity and
sincerity of the questioner overpowered "Crackerjack." He sank back into
a convenient chair and stared at the imperturbable pair. There was a
strange and wonderful likeness in the sweet-faced golden-haired little
girl before him to the worn, haggard, and ill-clad little girl who lay
shivering in the mean bed in the upper room where God was not--or so he
fancied.
"You're a little girl, aren't you?" he whispered.
No voice had been or was raised above a whisper. It was a witching hour
and its spell was upon them all.
"Yes."
"What is your name?"
"Helen."
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