“All right, sir,” said a familiar voice; and he saw that it was the first policeman. “The dining-room window was open facing the Park. I come in there. I’ve got a man watching. That you, sergeant?”
“Yes. You stop here with this gentleman; get out your truncheon, and don’t miss ’em, whatever you do. Roberts will be along here directly.”
“What are you going to do first?” said Artingale.
“Rout up the butler and one or two more, sir, directly,” said the sergeant, opening his lantern; and as they entered the hall he made the light play about the perfectly orderly place, before going softly into the great dining-room.
“Don’t quite understand it yet, sir,” he said. “The dining-room shutters here had been opened from the inside. Window was open. Seen anything?” he said to some one in the shadow. “No.”
“There’s plate enough on that sideboard,” continued the sergeant, “to have made a pretty good swag, if it ain’t ’lectrer.”
“No, no, those are all silver. It is a presentation set.”
“Then we’re in time,” whispered the sergeant. “I expect the servants are in it.”
A terrible dread was oppressing Artingale, but he did not speak, only followed the sergeant as he tried the breakfast-room door, to find it fast and the key outside; the library the same.
“All right there,” he said softly. “Joe, here. Stand inside and keep your eye on the staircase; we’re going below.”