“One door here locked, sir. I ought to see into every room.”
“Oh, to be sure! That’s my den,” cried the boy cavalierly—“my workshop. I am coming,” and springing up two steps at a time he faced the sergeant, who, with two men, was waiting by the locked door.
Waller thrust his hand into his pocket, and the sergeant looked at him sharply, for his breath, possibly from the exertion, came thick and fast, while the key seemed to stick in his pocket as if it had got across.
“There you are,” he said jauntily. “It’s full of my rubbish and odds and ends. Catch!”
He pitched the key, and the sergeant caught it with one hand as cleverly as if he had been a cricketer, turned, and began to insert it in the lock.
“Mind the snakes!” cried Waller mockingly; while, in spite of a strong effort, he felt half choked, and his voice sounded strained and hard.
“Snakes?” said the sergeant, pausing with the key half turned. “Up here?”
“Yes,” said Waller; “at least a dozen. I am a collector, you know.”
The sergeant gave him a searching look, hesitated a moment, and then, with a half-smile upon his lip, he turned the key. The bolt flew back with a sharp snap and he threw open the door.