That scent¹ of smoke was a clear proof that there was an open way through the loft² to the room of the bank below them. But would the opening be large enough to admit the body of a man? Only exploring could show that. He sat back on the roof and put on the mask with which the all-thoughtful Denver had provided him. A door banged somewhere far down the street, loudly. Someone might be making a hurried and disgusted exit from Pedro's. He looked quietly around him. After his immersion³ in the thick darkness of the house, the outer night seemed clear and the stars burned low through the thin mountain air. Denver's face was black under the shadow of his hat.  
"How are you, kid—shaky?" he whispered.
 
Shaky? It surprised Terry to feel that he had forgotten about fear. He had been wrapped in a happiness keener than anything he had known before. Yet the scheme was far from accomplished⁴. The real danger was barely beginning. Listening keenly, he could hear the sand crunch⁵ underfoot of the watcher who paced in front of the building; one of the cardplayers laughed from the room below—a faint, distant sound.
 
"Don't worry about me," he told Denver, and, securing a strong fingerhold on the edge of the ledge⁶, he dropped his full length into the darkness under the skylight.
 
His tiptoes grazed the floor beneath, and letting his fingers slide off their purchase, he lowered himself with painful care so that his heels might not jar on the flooring. Then he held his breath—but there was no creaking of the loft floor.
 
That made the adventure more possible. An ill-laid floor would have set up a ruinous screeching⁷ as he moved, however carefully, across it. Now he whispered up to Denver. The latter instantly slid down and Terry caught the solid bulk of the man under the armpits and lowered him carefully.
 
"A rotten rathole," snarled⁸ Denver to his companion in that inimitable, guarded whisper. "How we ever coming back this way—in a hurry?"
 
It thrilled Terry to hear that appeal—an indirect surrendering of the leadership to him. Again he led the way, stealing toward a ghost of light that issued upward from the center of the floor. Presently he could look down through it.
 
It was an ample square, a full three feet across. Below, and a little more than a pace to the side, was the table of the cardplayers. As nearly as he could measure, through the misleading wisps and drifts of cigarette smoke, the distance to the floor was not more than ten feet—an easy drop for a man hanging by his fingers.
 
Denver came to his side, silent as a snake.
 
"Listen," whispered Terry, cupping a hand around his lips and leaning close to the ear of Denver so that the least thread of sound would be sufficient. "I'm going to cover those two from this place. When I have them covered, you slip through the opening and drop to the floor. Don't stand still, but softfoot it over to the wall. Then cover them with your gun while I come down. The idea is this. Outside that window there's a second guard walking up and down. He can look through and see the table where they're playing, but he can't see the safe against the wall. As long as he sees those two sitting there playing their cards, he'll be sure that everything is all right. Well, Denver, he's going to keep on seeing them sitting at their game—but in the meantime you're going to make your preparations for blowing the safe. Can you do it? Is your nerve up to it?"
 
Even the indomitable Denver paused before answering. The chances of success in this novel game were about one in ten. Only shame to be outbraved by his younger companion and pupil made him nod and mutter his assent⁹.
 
That mutter, strangely, was loud enough to reach to the room below. Terry saw one of the men look up sharply, and at the same moment he pulled his gun and shoved it far enough through the gap for the light to catch on its barrel.
 
"Sit tight!" he ordered them in a cutting whisper. "Not a move, my friends!"
 
There was a convulsive movement toward a gun on the part of the first man, but the gesture was frozen midway; the second man looked up, gaping¹⁰, ludicrous in astonishment¹¹. But Terry was in no mood to see the ridiculous.
 
"Look down again!" he ordered brusquely. "Keep on with that game. And the moment one of you goes for a gun—the minute one of you makes a sign or a sound to reach the man in front of the house, I drill you both. Is that clear?"
 
The neck of the man who was nearest to him swelled¹² as though he were lifting a great weight with his head; no doubt he was battling with shrewd temptations to spring to one side and drive a bullet at the robbers above him. But prudence¹³ conquered. He began to deal, laying out the cards with mechanical, stiff motions.
 
"Now," said Terry to Denver.
 
Denver was through the opening in a flash and dropped to the floor below with a thud. Then he leaped away toward the wall out of sight of Terry. Suddenly a loud, nasal voice spoke¹⁴ through one of the front windows:
 
"What was that, boys?"
 
Terry caught his breath. He dared not whisper advice to those men at the table for fear his voice might carry to the guard who was apparently¹⁵ leaning at the window outside. But the dealer¹⁶ jerked his head for an instant toward the direction in which Denver had disappeared. Evidently the yegg was silently communicating imperious instructions, for presently the dealer said, in a voice natural enough: "Nothing happened, Lewison. I just moved my chair; that was all, I figure."
 
"I dunno," growled¹⁷ Lewison. "I been waiting for something to happen for so long that I begin to hear things and suspect things where they ain't nothing at all."
 
And, still mumbling¹⁸, his voice passed away.
 
Terry followed Denver's example, dropping through the opening; but, more cautious, he relaxed his leg muscles, so that he landed in a bunched heap, without sound, and instantly joined Denver on the farther side of the room. Lewison's gaunt outline swept past the window at the same moment.
 
He found that he had estimated viewpoints accurately¹⁹ enough. From only the right-hand window could Lewison see into the interior of the room and make out his two guards at the table. And it was only by actually leaning through the window that he would be able to see the safe beside which Terry and Denver stood.
 
"Start!" said Terry, and Denver deftly²⁰ laid out a little kit²¹ and two small packages. With incredible speed he began to make his molding of soft soap around the crack of the safe door. Terry turned his back on his companion and gave his undivided attention to the two at the table.
 
Their faces were odd studies in suppressed shame and rage. The muscles were taut²²; their hands shook with the cards.
 
"You seem kind of glum²³, boys!" broke in the voice of Lewison at the window.
 
Terry flattened²⁴ himself against the wall and jerked up his gun—a warning flash which seemed to be reflected by the glint in the eyes of the red- headed man facing him. The latter turned slowly to the window.
 
"Oh, we're all right," he drawled. "Kind of getting wearying, this watch."
 
"Mind you," crackled the uncertain voice of Lewison, "five dollars if you keep on the job till morning. No, six dollars, boys!"
 
He brought out the last words in the ringing voice of one making a generous sacrifice, and Terry smiled behind his mask. Lewison passed on again. Forcing all his nerve power into the faculty²⁵ of listening, Terry could tell by the crunching²⁶ of the sand how the owner of the safe went far from the window and turned again toward it.
 
"Start talking," he commanded softly of the men at the table.
 
"About what?" answered the red-haired man through his teeth. "About what, damn you!"
 
"Tell a joke," ordered Terry.
 
The other scowled²⁷ down at his hand of cards—and then obeyed.
 
"Ever hear about how Rooney—"
 
The voice was hard at the beginning; then, in spite of the levelled gun which covered him, the red-haired man becam............