He now made an attempt to force open the door with his jemmy and the piece of wood he carried with him, but it resisted all his efforts, and he at last began to despair.
A sudden thought struck him—the key of the safe was doubtless somewhere in the house. Probably the owner of it had it in his pocket.
Peace crept up stairs again. Not a soul was to be seen. No one was in either the back or front room first floor.
He went up cautiously to the next story. In the front room of this he heard some one snoring.
He concluded that this was the master of the house. He opened the door for about an inch, and peered in—a man, with a dark beard and a moustache, was in bed.
He was evidently sleeping soundly. On a chair, by the side of the bed, were several garments.
There was just sufficient light for the burglar to discern these.
He felt the time had come for him to make an effort. Grasping his revolver in his right hand he crept on all fours to the side of the bed, watching as he did so the face of the sleeping man with the eyes of a lynx.
He placed his hand on a pair of black trousers, and felt something heavy in one of the pockets. Gathering them together in a heap he crept back towards the door, which he passed through in safety.
When on the landing he rifled the pockets, in one of which was a large bunch of keys.