“Here we are!” she observed, in a low, thrilling voice.
“Oh!” said Mr. Priestley, unable altogether to prevent himself from wishing they were not. “I—er—I see.”
“What do we do now, Mr. Mullins?”
Mr. Priestley pulled himself together and did his best to vanquish the curious sinking feeling at the pit of his waistcoat. He must not forget that he was a professional burglar. The reputation of the absent Mr. Mullins rested on his shoulders.
“We go in,” he replied, with a decision which he was far from feeling.
They went in.
As they walked up the short drive Mr. Priestley pondered very earnestly. Now it came to the point, how on earth did one break into a house? The nearer he got to the building, the more solid and impenetrable it looked. Weren’t there cunning things to be done with knife-blades and window-latches? And treacle and that he had never come at all and being remarkably glad that he had. Anyhow, turnip indeed!
With infinite care they crept into what seemed to be a passage and listened. Not a sound was audible. If ever a house was deserted, Mr. Priestley reflected, surely this one was. A small hand clutched one of his, and he clutched back. They began to move soundlessly down the dark passage.
A penetrating squeak brought Mr. Priestley’s heart for a moment into his mouth. Then he saw that the girl had opened a door on the right of the passage. Through the aperture a pair of French windows on the farther side of a fair-sized room was faintly illuminated by the moonlight.
“This is the library,” said the girl in a low voice and drew him inside, closing the door behind them.