He peered through the crevice of the door, and saw the suspicious-looking party lay his hands on some trinkets, and place them in one of the capacious pockets of his coat.
“Well, I’m blowed,” murmured the astonished footman, “if this ere don’t take the wind out of me entirely. Why, hang it, the fellow’s a thief or a burglar, as sure as my name’s Jones! I’m blest if he aint and no mistake—the audacious circumventing scoundrel!”
It was as plain as a pikestaff—the man was possessing himself of what property he could lay his hands on; that was too evident.
Mr. Jones was a man of Patagonian proportions—he was tall, and proportionately stout, with a broad pair of shoulders, and unexceptionable calves.
In point of fact, he considered himself to be one of the chief ornaments of the household; but despite his stalwart frame and athletic limbs, he was what one might term “knocked silly” for a brief space of time.
The situation in which he found himself was altogether an exceptional one.
He was calmly contemplating a burglar or professional thief at work, and James Jones was, as a matter of course, for the moment dumfounded.
The audacity of the man was beyond all bounds.
How he had contrived to effect an entrance into the apartment in question was a matter the puzzled footman could not determine, but it was plainly demonstrated that he was there.
“Well I never!” exclaimed Jones. “It seems altogether impossible, and surpasses all belief, the contemptible, despicable little thief.”