to sight in
place of the safe, a barrel of dark wood; and in a moment there was a
strong odor of vinegar.

Things spun around with Mr. Shipley for a few moments. He grasped a
counter and looked wildly about him. Clerks were hurrying with the
covering of counters; no one seemed to have noticed anything. He stood
a moment, gritted his teeth, and breathed deeply, and soon was master
of himself. He stood and waited until the last customer was gone, and
then called several clerks and pointed to where the safe had stood.

Within the space of a month, thirteen safes and three million dollars
worth of money or property had disappeared. The police were dazed and
desperate, and business was in a panic. Scientific men were appealed
to, to help solve the riddle, but were helpless. Many of them agreed
that though in theory such things were explainable, science was as yet
far from any known means of bringing them about in actuality.
Insurance companies spent fabulous sums on investigation, and, failing
to get results, raised their premiums to impossible levels.

PART III

_The Lady of the Picture_

Phil Hurren, often known as "Zip" Hurren, reporter on the _Examiner_,
felt, on the day the managing editor called him into the sanctum, that
fortune could smile on him no more brightly. There wasn't anything
brighter.

"You stand well with the detective bureau," his boss had said; "and
you've followed this safe-disappearing stuff pretty closely. You're
relieved of everything else for the time being. Get on that business,
and see that the public hears from the _Examiner_!"

Phil knew better than to say any more, for before he recovered from
his surprise, the editor had turned his back, buried himself in his
work on the desk, and forgotten that Phil was there. Nor did Phil
waste any real time in rejoicing. That is why he was called "Zip."
When things happened, whether it was luck or system, Phil was usually
there. In sixty seconds more, Phil was in a taxicab, whirling toward
police headquarters.

Luck or system, he didn't know, but he struck it again. The big wagon
was just starting away from the station door when he arrived, crowded
inside with bluecoats and plainclothes-men. The burly, red-faced man
with chevrons on his sleeve, sitting beside the driver, saw Phil jump
out, and motioned with his hand. Phil leaped up on the back step of
the vehicle and hung on for dear life with his fingers through the
wire grating as they caree