“There you go again,” growled the operator. “Keyhole ain’t on the ceiling, mate, nor yet on the floor.”
“Oh, all right.”
“But it ain’t all right. I’ve got only two hands, or I’d hold the blessed bulls-eye myself.”
“There you are, then; will that do?”
“Do? Why, of course it will,” growled the fellow. “I don’t ask much. If you can’t hold a lantern, let one of the gentlemen.”
“Something’s rusty,” said the sergeant.
“No, it ain’t that,” said the man, taking the remark literally. “Look’s ’ily enough, but it’s such a rum un—sort of a double trouble back-fall. I don’t know what people are about, inventing such stupid locks. ‘Patent,’ they calls ’em, and what for? Only to give a man more trouble. All locks can be opened, if you give your mind to it, whether you’ve got a key or no. It’s only a case of patience. That’s got him!” he said exultantly, and a thrill ran through Guest. “No, it ain’t; that blessed tumbler’s gone down again. But, as I was a-saying,” he continued, as he resumed his operations, “a man who knows his business can open a lock sooner or later, so why ain’t they all made simple and ha’ done with it?”
“If talking would pick a lock,” said the sergeant jocularly, “that one would have flown open by now.”
“And if chucking the light of a bull’s-eye everywheres but how a man wants it would ha’ done it, we should ha’ been inside ten minutes ago. Like to have a try yourself, pardner?”
“No, no; go on,” said the sergeant sternly; and the man sighed and selected a fresh pick, one so slight and small that it seemed to be too fragile for the purpose, as it flashed in the light while being inserted.