, ripped the sleeves, tore the back breadth, and
threw the coat under a stool. Then he secured a dustcloth from a hook,
produced a small vial of chloroform, and poured some of the liquid on
the cloth. He poured more of the chloroform on his hair and his vest.
Then he laid down the cloth and got a roll of tape out of a drawer. He
cut off a length and made a noose, slipped it over his wrists, bent down
and laid the end of the tape on the floor, stood on it, and pulled taut
the noose until the flesh was ridged. He stooped again and picked up
two metal disks which Starr tossed on the floor; the detective did this
easily, although his writs were noosed.

"Not the exact program, perhaps, but near enough," Starr commented.

With equal ease Bixby laid the disks carefully on the flange of the sill
of the vault. Then he took the cloth from the desk, went to the vault,
stooped and thumped his head up against the projecting lever. He went
into the vault and carefully pulled the door shut after him, both hands
on the main bolt.

Starr was silent for some moments, exchanging looks with the cashier.

"Any comments?" inquired the manager of the show.

"None, sir."

"I'll simply say that the chloroform cloth can be put to the nose as
occasion calls for. Bixby isn't doing that. I told Bixby that for the
purposes of demonstration he might count one hundred slow and then
figure that he had used up the oxygen in the vault, and then, if nobody
came to open the door, he could--well, he isn't in there to commit
suicide, but only to create an impression. I ask again--any comments?"

Vaniman shook his head.

Then the door swung open. Bixby was on his back, his heels in the air.
He had pushed the door with his feet, his shoulders against the inner
door. He rose and came out. Starr cut the tape with the office shears.

"That's all!" said the manager.

Bixby, not troubling about the torn office jacket, put on his overcoat
and departed.

Starr took a lot of time in lighting a cigar and getting a good clinch
on the weed with his teeth. He spoke between those teeth. "It's your
move, Vaniman."

"I haven't agreed to sit in at that kind of a game," stated the young
man, firmly.

"But you'll have to admit that I'm playing mighty fair," insisted the
examiner. "When we talked in Britt's office, you and I agreed that it
wasn't likely that a chap would run risks or commit suicide by shutting
himself up in a bank vault with a time lock on. That