The place was locked up, and secured by massive bolts and bars—so carefully secured, indeed, that it was supposed to be burglar-proof. So, indeed, it might have been had not one been already concealed in the premises.
When he felt assured that everybody had left, Peace, like a cunning rascal as he was, crept from his hiding place. He had brought with him a sack, an old one, for a new one would not have answered his purpose.
Sealskins and embroidery were the valuables he was desirous of purloining. He was well acquainted with the interior of the premises, as years before he had done an occasional job therein in the way of mending machinery and carpenter’s work.
He had, therefore, but little difficulty in laying his hands upon the goods he so much coveted. He thrust sealskin after sealskin into his bag, together with satin and embroidery; in a short time the sack was very tightly filled.
At a rough calculation the property it contained would represent as much as from two to three hundred pounds—that is, assuming the articles were sold at the manufacturers’ prices.
He was now prepared to make clean off with the booty the moment the signal was given by his accomplice from without.
Bandy-legged Bill was a stranger to Sheffield and unknown to any of its inhabitants, and he was therefore not likely to attract much observation.
Peace had watched and waited as he had done on many other occasions. In cases of this sort he displayed an amount of passive endurance which, to say the least of it, was most remarkable in one of his active temperament.
He was greatly relieved upon hearing a gentle tap at one of the back windows of the warehouse.
He looked out and beheld the gipsy, who intimated by a sign that the coast was clear.