His passage to the great hall upstairs was easy. Here he halted to take his bearings. He was at the foot of the marble stairs for which Shipley House was famous. Once they had stood in front of Nero's villa at Antium; but, oblivious of his historic surroundings, Mr. Richard Hilton stood wondering which of the four doors on his left led to the library. One after another he cautiously opened them, only to find living or reception rooms. He crossed the hall, and got into the billiard-room. Where on earth was the Lord Chancellor's den? Ah! those heavy curtains under the staircase. He passed through them. There was a short passage, with a door at the end. Hush! what was that? He listened intently. It was nothing—merely nervous fancy. He turned the handle of the door, and entered.
He was in the Lord Chancellor's library. But, Heavens! he was not there alone.
For a moment he drew back in dismay; but the singularity of the other man's occupation arrested him.
He was kneeling on the floor before the wall at the far end of the room. He had a lamp or candle by his side. What on earth was he doing? Had he surprised the Lord High Chancellor, the keeper of the King of England's conscience, worshipping by stealth at some pagan shrine?
What were the rites he was performing? Curiosity impelled Mr. Hilton forward. As he drew nearer, the situation unfolded itself. He had done the Lord Chancellor an injustice. It was not he.
A man was kneeling before a safe built into the wall. He was drilling holes into the door by the light of a lamp.
He was a real burglar!
The humour of the situation struck Mr. Hilton so keenly that he nearly laughed. For some time he watched the operation, expecting each moment to be discovered. Then, as the man continued absorbed in his work, Mr. Hilton sank noiselessly into an easy chair behind him. To prepare for contingencies, his hand had stolen to his coat pocket, and now held a small revolver.
For half an hour longer he continued to admire the businesslike methods of the burglar. The door of the safe had now been pierced through all round the lock. The man turned to reach another tool. In so doing his eye caught sight of a patent leather boot and a trouser leg, where before there had been empty space. The phenomenon fascinated him. He slowly turned his head, following the clue upward until his eyes were level with the barrel of Mr. Hilton's revolver. His jaw fell, and he stiffened.
"Please keep as you are for a minute," said a low voice from behind the weapon. "I wish you to understand the situation. There is no immediate cause for anxiety. I am—er—a friend in disguise. You may go on with your most interesting work. I shall give no alarm. Do you understand?"