Turning, then, he gripped a branch of the nearest tree. Swung up into it. Clambered out, cat-like, until he lay beyond the fence and above the grounds of Vance's home.
The limb bowed under his weight as he proceeded until at last he was able to drop lightly to the ground.
One hazard passed!
"And with no worries about that fence being wired for an alarm system, either!" he told himself triumphantly.
He hurried toward the house, thankful for the darkness of the night.
On one side of the big building lay a terrace. French windows opened onto it.
Like a wraith in the night, taking advantage of every shrub and patch of shadow, Mark crept close to the casements.
They were locked.
The trespasser stripped off his coat. Wrapped it around his hand, a bulky, protective wad of cloth covering the flesh. Then, as silently as possible, he pressed on one of the small panes of glass close beside the lock. Harder ... harder ... harder....