“Look here,” Sard said, “this may be the key of this door; the man dropped it. We’ll go in, if it is. Are you armed?”
“No; are you?”
“No,” Sard said, “but I’m used to rough houses. Are you?”
“No.”
“Well,” Sard said, “there’s only one rule in rough house fighting, and that is, be first. Come on.”
* * * * *
They crept to the door of the house. It looked more solid, close at hand. It had knopped iron plates across it: the fanlight was barred: the windows to each side were covered with old iron rejas. The house behind it was as silent as the grave. For a moment Sard thought of calling a civil guard, but put the thought from him, “I’m my own civil guard in a seaport town; besides, this gang is certain to have squared the police.” Both men listened: Sard tried the key.
The key fitted and turned. Very gently, lest the door should be upon a chain, Sard moved it ajar. He peered in. There was a smell of some gum or incense, like the smell of sweet leather. There was an ample hall, dark as old leather, with patches of light from the windows. He saw then what he had not suspected from without, that the windows were of an opaque glass. He edged into the hall, followed by Hilary. They stood together, inside the door, listening intently. Sard felt along the door to make sure how to open it. “It’s a latch door,” he whispered. “We’d better close it.”
“No, keep it open for our retreat,” Hilary whispered.
“Too risky,” he answered. “It might slam to, or be noticed from outside, or make a draught that would be noticed inside.”