Billie shook his head, but he confessed to a grievous disappointment all the same. He was evidently in for it, no matter what might follow. On looking down at his feet he discovered a stone that he could mount, and after he had done this it was likely to be a much easier job clambering in through the low window than at first appearance he had expected.
“Who’s afraid?” he again muttered softly to himself; for that was one of his pet ways for bolstering up his courage when he began to feel his knees wobble under him, and knew that his heart was beating twice as fast as normal.
Accordingly he gave a heave, and in this way managed to get his right knee elevated upon the window ledge. After that it was easy enough; and presently Billie lowered himself into the room.
He felt very queer while doing this, just for all the world as though he might be a real burglar intending to steal valuables, and in momentary terror lest the angry man of the house dash in upon him.
All seemed quiet enough, though he could hear some one moving around in the adjoining room, and took for granted that this must be Mrs. Comstock. Billie sincerely hoped that whatever she was doing, whether packing up her clothes in expectation of an early flitting, or anything else, she would keep right along at it, and not bother taking a look through that open doorway.
He glanced cautiously around him, trying to get his bearings, and discover just where the coveted article lay.
“To your right—on the desk!” whispered the man outside.
Billie turned around to move in that direction. As he did so he managed to dislodge a small picture that had been pinned to the wall. It fell with a slight noise, and Billie’s heart seemed to stand still with sudden fear.
When nothing happened Billie took his courage in both hands, and started to move over to where the big rolltop desk stood, intending to pick up the belt and hasten to hand it to Mr. Comstock, after which he would get outside where he could breathe again naturally, and without such a dread specter hanging over his head.
Yes, there was the belt, just as the former manager had said, lying snugly on the desk; and the revolver seemed to be as usual in the leather holster which was heavily studded with buttons or round-headed colored nails, cowboy fashion.