Lucas pulled himself together. What had he to do with empty chairs, and old folios, and omens? He was a burglar, out for the night on urgent business. Let him attend to it, and keep his dreams and soliloquies for the daytime. He walked across the polished floor, his rubber soles being absolutely noiseless. He raised the heavy curtain, and passed beneath it through the archway.
There in front of him was the marble hall, bathed in coloured moonlight. The fountain played softly to the tones of gold, azure and red cast from the stained-glass window. If Mr. Lucas had been conversant with Keats he would doubtless have thought of St. Agnes' Eve; but presumably Mr. Lucas did not, for, keeping well to the wall, he stole quickly across to where stood the case containing the miniatures.
"LUCAS DROPPED IT CAREFULLY INTO THE POCKET OF HIS NORFOLK JACKET."
"You bress de button, and it releases de trawers. So." He smiled as Mr. Meyer's pronunciation came back to him. He followed the instructions, and the drawers were free.
Cosway and Engleheart did not detain him to-night. He opened the bottom drawer. There lay the Holbein for which Mr. Meyer had recently paid three thousand guineas. Lucas dropped it carefully into the pocket of his Norfolk jacket, shut the drawer, and closed the case.
So far all was well—very well indeed. Only a few yards, a curtain, and a few yards more, lay between him and freedom. Then again there fell upon him a sense of Mr. Meyer's personality. What had that man not done? He had browbeaten an Emperor, hoodwinked a couple of wily Chancellors, and decimated the ranks of rival practitioners. Was he, John Lucas, a mere tyro in the burglary profession, able to outwit the smartest man of the day? Had he only to break a window, step across a floor, seize a treasure, and depart?
No—it was impossible. The very ease with which everything had been accomplished was the worst sign of all. "I have gone into de question of dieves, and tink I should be able to meet de situation." Meyer's words came back to him now. He himself was in town—Lucas had seen him depart that morning, to make it absolutely certain—but his myrmidons were doubtless hidden around. An electric shock would suddenly hold him fast, and Meyer's butler or stage manager, or whatever he was called, would appear and wing him—unless the servants were asleep in their master's absence. But nothing was ever left to chance in Mr. Meyer's life or his house. The very silence was eloquent of impending catastrophe.
Again Mr. Lucas reproached himself with nervous folly. "It is only my second burglary," he reflected apologetically. He stepped across the hall, and once more raised the curtain.