on the far side of that room, with his back to her, she could distinctly see the rotund figure of Wallaby Sam.
He was stooping before the opened door of a small wall safe. She could see the high lights on the polished dome of his head and along the arc of his smoothly starched collar-back. Above this collar she could see the pendulous and pink-fleshed neck. She could even hear his heavy breathing as he stooped lower and drew a packet of papers from one of the inner chambers of the open safe. And even in that position of stooping abstraction he retained an aspect that was both rubicund and bird-like in its suggestion of perky inconsequentiality.
Sadie's stare, as she studied him, was even more abstracted. It wandered from the high light on the forward stooping head-top to the center table half-way across the room, where her mildly inquiring glance rested on the tall column of a Russian brass candlestick at least a foot and a half in height. Then, taking a deep breath, she advanced noiselessly into the room, edging step by guarded step toward the center table.
Once there, and with her eyes still fastened on Wallaby Sam's stooping back, she reached gropingly
