“I’m willing.  And I must have my check before they go into the fire.”

“You are very suspicious, Chris, very suspicious.”

“No more so than you, Woody.  I wasn’t born yesterday.”

“Well, let’s have the papers and I’ll write out the check.  But it must be understood that you give no more information to the boy.”

“Give him information!” cried Holtzmann.  “Let him show his face here again and I’ll break every bone in his body,” he added grimly.

This was certainly an interesting bit of news.  I made up my mind that to be seen would render matters decidedly warm for me.

But I was even more interested over the fact that the two men intended to burn up part of the evidence that might clear my father’s name.  Such a thing must not happen.  I must use every means in my power to prevent it.

Yet what was to be done?  If the documents were produced at once, how could I save them from destruction?

A bold dash for them seemed the only way.  Once snatched from Holtzmann’s or Aaron Woodward’s hands, and escape through the window or the door would be difficult, but not impossible.

Yet while I was revolving these thoughts over in my mind the same thing evidently suggested itself to the proprietor of the Palace of Pleasure.

“Wait till I lock the door,” he said.  “We don’t want to be interrupted.”

“No indeed,” returned Mr. Woodward; “interruptions don’t pay.”

“And I’ll close the window, too,” went on Holtzmann; “it’s cool enough without having it open.”

“So it is.”

So the window and the door were both closed and fastened.  I was chagrined, but could do nothing.

A moment later I heard Chris Holtzmann at his safe, and then the rattle of something on his desk.

“The papers are in this tin box,” he said.  “I placed them there over six months ago.”

He opened the box, and I heard a rustling of documents.

“Why—­ why—­ what does this mean!” he ejaculated.  “They are not here!”

“What!” cried Mr. Aaron Woodward, aghast.

“The papers are not here!” Holtzmann hurried over to his safe and began a hasty search.  “As sure as you’re born, Woody, they have been stolen!”

“It’s that boy,” exclaimed the merchant.  “He’s a wizard of a sly one.  He has stolen them, and we are lost!”

CHAPTER XXIX

 The precious papers

I was not as much surprised over the situation as were the two men.  I could put two and two together as quickly as any one, and I knew exactly where the papers were to be found.

Sammy Simpson, of 28 Hallock Street, was the thief.  He had intimated that he had evidence against Chris Holtzmann, and these papers were that evidence.

This being so, there was no further use for my remaining in my cramped position in the closet, and I longed for a chance for escape.  It was not long in coming.