The constable at the entrance obeyed his orders, and softly opening a glass door, the sergeant, who seemed quite at home in the geography of the place, led the way down a flight of well-whitened stone steps to the basement, the bright light of his lantern playing upon a long row of bells, and then upon a broad stone passage and several doors.
“Butler’s pantry,” he whispered, after a good look round. “You stop here, sir.”
Artingale stopped short, guarding the foot of the steps, and the sergeant tried the door, to find it fast, but as the handle rattled a man’s voice exclaimed, “Who’s there?”
“Police! Open quickly.”
There was a scuffling noise, then the striking of a match, and a light shone out from three panes of glass above the door. The hurried sound of some one putting on some clothes, and then a peculiar monitory click-click!
“Mind what you’re at with that pistol,” said the sergeant gruffly. “I tell you it’s the police. Open the door.”
“How do I know it’s the police?” said the butler firmly.
“Come and see then, stupid.”
“Open the door, Thompson,” said Artingale. “I’m here too.”
“Oh, is it you, my lord?” said the butler, and he unlocked the door, to be seen in his shirt and trousers, with a cocked pistol in his hand. “I’ve got the plate here, my lord, and I did not know but what it was a trick. For God’s sake, my lord, what’s the matter?”