“Not a bit,” growled the man, and he held his bunch of keys up to the glass of the bull’s-eye lantern.
“Don’t worry, old chap,” said the sergeant. Then, turning to Guest:
“Look a nice, respectable lot, we do, sir,” he said. “If one of your neighbours was to see us he’d be slipping off to fetch all the police he could find, to see what we were about.”
“Wish you’d hold that there light still,” growled his follower. “Who’s to find a pick with your bobbing it about like that?”
“All right. Don’t get shirty, my lad;” and then, as a fresh pick was selected, and the man began operating again, the sergeant placed his hand beside his mouth, after directing the light full on the keyhole, and whispered to Guest:
“I’m afraid you’re right, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“What you thought, sir. There’s somebody lying in there, sure as sure, or my mate here wouldn’t turn like he has.”
“Oh, nonsense!” whispered Guest uneasily.
“No, sir; it’s right enough. He’s like a good dog; has a kind of feeling when there’s something wrong.”