against the open apex of the draughting paper trumpet. His ear, even without the aid of this roughly improvised microphone, was one of the most sensitive of organs. But now, through even that thick wall of steel, he could hear the soft click of the tumblers and the noise of the dial as he worked the combination. He knew the possible permutations, and he tried them, one after the other, listening always for the deeper sound when a lock-tumbler had engaged.
It was expert work, and it called into play both the patience and the delicacy of touch of an expert. Yet it was a full half-hour before Kestner had mastered the combination, and throwing back the lock-bars, swung the heavy safe-door open.
He was confronted, as he had half-expected, by an array of innocent-looking engravings and art prints. Behind these again was a litter of artist's proofs and etchings, such as might have been gathered together by any collector wandering about the quays and shops of Paris.
He stopped and looked at his watch, and then turned and worked his way deeper into the vault. He worked rapidly now, impressed by the discovery that time was more than precious.
In an inner drawer, which he was reluctantly forced to pry open, he found a trayful of photographic plates, and under them a small old-fashioned mother-of-pearl writing-desk. The lock of this desk he was able to pick. Inside, under a scattering of letters and tradesmen's bills, he unearthed a number of neatly baled packages. Still again he showed no hesitation as he tore the wrapper from the first of these.
