And after a moment, with both door and frame eloquent of the rough surgery that had been practised upon them, the door opened.
The two men entered, and closed the door silently behind them. An electric torch stabbed suddenly through the blackness and played for a moment inquisitively over its surroundings.
"'Tain't changed a bit, as I said when I saw the plan," commented Runnells.
They went on quickly. But where before there had been a steady play of the electric torch it winked now through the darkness only at intervals. A door opened here and there noiselessly; the footsteps of the men were cautious, wary, almost without sound. And then, as they halted finally, and the torch shot out its ray again, Runnells drew in his breath with a low, catchy, whistling sound.
The torch disclosed a narrow serving pantry, and, on the floor at one side, a great metal box or chest—obviously the object of their visit. But Runnells for the moment was apparently not interested in the chest.
"Look at that!" he breathed hoarsely—and pointed to the farther end of the pantry where a swinging door was ajar, and through which an upturned foot protruded.
The Frenchman set his bags down beside the metal chest, moved swiftly forward, pushed the swinging door open, and stepped silently through into what was obviously the dining room. And Runnells, beside him, whispered hoarsely again, but this time with a sort of amazed admiration in his voice.
"Gawd!" said Runnells. "Neat, I calls that! Neat! What?"
Two men lay upon the floor, gagged, bound and apparently unconscious. One, from his livery, was a servant in the house; the other was in civilian clothes.
Paul Cremarre pointed to the latter.