I nodded sagely, yet still uncomprehending; then burned my boats.
“Down the stairs and out of the window!”
“You think so? Let’s investigate. I suppose that window, Bill, is roughly fifteen feet from the ground—eh?”
I assented. “An easy job,” I interjected, “for an active man!”
“And when he wanted to get back,” replied Anthony, “a moderately easy climb. He could use the water-pipe,” he indicated with his hand the water-pipe running down the wall on the right of the window—“for a hold with his right hand, could dig his toes in the brickwork; clutch the window-sill with his left hand and easily draw his body up. Agree, Bill?”
“Absolutely,” I concurred. “If you like, I’ll try it here and now, to prove it’s a practicable possibility.”
“Done with you, Bill. You’re a stout fellow! Up you go!”
I suited the action to the words. Reaching out with my right hand I gripped the water-pipe well up its length, pulled myself up a bit, kicked at the brickwork with my toes, got a momentary hold, hung for a second, shot up my left hand to clutch the window-sill, succeeded, and hauled myself up. Entrance to the billiard room would have been a comparatively simple matter.
“Satisfied?” I grinned. Then, dropped to the ground again.
“Completely! So that, friend Bill, is the method by which the now defunct Prescott, poor fellow, got out and got back? Eh?”