The butler went away on tip-toe. As he walked along the passage he heard the sharp grating of the file, and shivered with dread. But upon reaching the pantry he felt relieved, for the housekeeper seemed to be asleep.
Not content with this, Roach went up to the hall and listened. But all was perfectly still in the great solemn mansion, and he went down again, to be conscious of the scrap, scrap of the file, before he reached the pantry, where the old lady still lay unmoved.
Hastily getting a bottle of wine from the cupboard, and uncorking it, he went back, to find Arthur still filing away.
“Oh, there you are then,” he grumbled. “I was just a-coming to see if you were finishing the bottle all to your own cheek. Here, give us hold.”
He took a deep draught, and recommenced filing with renewed vigour for some minutes.
“Now,” he said, “this is the last time of trying. If it won’t do it we must do the other thing.”
He tried the key, and it turned half-way, but it was forced upon them that there was something wanting. The key did not touch some portion of the ingeniously-made lock, and the young man thrust it in his pocket.
“Better have tried the hammering at first,” he said.
“No, no! The noise,” cried Roach.
“Bah! Who’s going to take any notice of a bit of knocking?” said the young man, contemptuously. “The sound can’t reach them there.”