“Here we are, gentlemen,” said the police officer. “Candle? Shan’t want it, sir; I have a lantern, and it will be handier. You wish it all to be done quietly, you say, but I’m afraid our friend here will make a little noise with his tools. People downstairs will hear.”
“They are only offices below,” said Guest.
“Upstairs, then?”
“No one there in the evening.”
“That’s right then, sir. Which is the door?”
At a word from Guest, Stratton moved across the landing and turned down the passage in which Brettison’s doorway stood, moving still in the same dreamy fashion, as his friend’s will forced him to act, and as they reached the doorway the sergeant turned on his lantern, so that the light played about the keyhole.
“Now, Jem,” he said, “have a look at it. What do you say?”
The man slouched up, and the shadow of his head, with its closely fitting cap, glided about on the door, as he turned from side to side to get a good look at the little opening.
“Light more this way, matey,” he growled, in an ill-used tone. “That’ll do. Steady, please. I don’t want to look at the ’inges.”
“There you are, then. Well, is it a pick? or a saw-out?”