He watched awhile longer, but nothing else happened. It grew dark. He kissed Peggy, who held him tight a moment, looked into his eyes lovingly, but did not protest or cry, as some wives would have done. He waved his hand as he left the door, and, keeping close to the convent wall, crossed the common. Into the Mortons' gate he slipped, and before anyone could say "Jack Robinson" he had crept under the steps of the side entrance.
He carried his good stick.
"They'll have pistols sure, and knives maybe, but give me a good whack with this at close range, and I'll beat 'em, pistols and all."
His position was cramped and uncomfortable, but he did not care. He crouched into as small a space as possible. The time seemed long, but he never thought of giving up; he was there to stay.
The convent bell tolled the hours: eight, nine, ten. Then a step, soft and slow on the pavement, and he saw two feet. Another step as noiseless as a wild beast's; and he saw two more feet.
Jerry was right. There were three men instead of two—one inside, two out.
Presently came whispered words too low for him to catch, and he heard a bolt cautiously slipped.
One pair of feet disappeared; the other pair remained. This fellow on the outside would prevent the police from surprising the two within. Should Jerry tackle the watching burglar now or wait?
"I wonder how many more of them there are?" thought Jerry, as he took firm hold of his club, and eyed the waiting feet, scarcely daring to breathe.
In the meantime, the police stationed back and front had seen the two men arrive and one enter; but, not having reached the convent gate early enough, they did not know that a third man was within. They kept guard and thought they had a sure thing of nabbing the burglars as they emerged with their spoils.