The policeman on the beat came to the head of the street, and looked down it. He saw nothing. How could he see the two figures in the alley? The officer remarked:
“It’s all quiet there. What’s the use of walking down? I’ll just go over to the avenue, and have a chat with Hennessy, and smoke a cigar before the roundsman comes along.”
So the policeman passed away. Meanwhile the two dark figures crept on. In a little while they had reached the cellar door. Cautiously one of the men drew from his pocket a small instrument like a cold chisel or a screwdriver, except that it had no wooden handle. One edge was broad and sharp, like a wedge.
The man went close to the cellar door. He put the edge of the instrument between the door and the jamb, close to the lock. There was a little crackling sound, hardly enough to waken the lightest sleeper.
“Is it all right?” whispered the man who had remained on guard outside the cellar door.
“All right,” was the whisper in return.
“Then go ahead and start the blaze. Don’t make much of a one. Put it near the dumbwaiter shaft, so the smoke will go up quickly. Use wet paper. It makes more smoke.”
“Go ahead,” came back, in whispered accents. “I’ll do my part, if you do yours. Do you know where they keep the papers?”
“Sure. Under the bed,” was the answer. “The old lady gave it away when I was talking to her to-night, only she never knew it.”
Then, while one of the men made his way into the cellar, the other began creeping up the rear stairs of the apartment house. And, if one had looked closely at the man who was creeping upstairs, they would have seen that his hands were encased in gloves, though it was summer time and quite hot.