Mr. Priestley’s first action was the result of his ponderings. One item of criminal lore at least he had remembered—always provide for your way of escape! He walked swiftly across the room and opened the French windows.
“Oh, Mr. Mullins!” exclaimed the girl with soft admiration, when, not without pride, Mr. Priestley had explained the reason for his action. “What a thing it is to have an experienced burglar to help me. I should never have done that by myself.”
Mr. Priestley began to think that perhaps he would not have made such a bad burglar after all.
“Now, then, where does he keep those letters?” he asked, in brisk, businesslike tones.
“In one of the drawers of the writing-table,” said the girl softly. “Would it be safe to turn on the light, do you think?”
“No!” replied Mr. Priestley with firmness. “It wouldn’t.”
“Did you bring an electric torch?”
“Er—no, I’m afraid I didn’t.”
“Well, just strike a match, and I’ll show you the drawer.”
It was against Mr. Priestley’s instincts of preservation, but he complied. The flaring match gave him a brief glimpse of a big, comfortable room, and Mrs. Spettigue standing in front of a large writing-desk against one wall. Then it died down and Mr. Priestley prudently extinguished it.