“Yes,” was the whispered answer. “I heard them five minutes ago. There they are.”
At that moment a singular low grating noise was heard.
“Diamond cutting glass,” said the vicar, with his lips close to his companions ear.
A sharp crack.
“There goes the pane,” whispered the vicar.
Then there was the creak—creak—creak of a window being softly raised, after the fastening had been thrust back. Then, again, perfect silence, succeeded at last by a gentle rustling noise; but so quietly had the entry been made that but for a faint glimmer of light seen now and then through the open door, there was nothing to indicate that anything below was wrong.
The watchers sat listening with their hearts beating with a heavy dull pulsation, till at length a stair creaked, as if from the weight of some one ascending, and they fancied they could hear the hard breathing of some listener. This ceased in a very short time, and they instinctively knew that the burglar had returned to the study, where the clink of a glass warned them that the bait had proved sufficient attraction for the wolves.
There was another pause and a faint whisper or two, followed by the soft rustling made by the men crossing the little hall to the dining-room, from whence arose the metallic sound of silver touching silver. Then there came more rustling and chinking, and John Maine whispered,
“Pray, let’s go and stop them, sir: they’ll get away with the plate.”
“Oh, no,” said the vicar in the same tone. “Wait.”