“No use in raising the dust by knocking. Go over,” counseled Steingall. “Try to open the gate. Then you can return the ladder and tarpaulin at once. Otherwise, leave them in position. If satisfied that the house is inhabited by those with whom you have no concern, come away unnoticed, if possible.”
Carshaw climbed the ladder, sat on the tarpaulin, and dropped the ladder on the inner side of the wall. They heard him shaking the gate. His head reappeared over the wall.
“Locked,” he said, “and the key gone. I’ll come back and report quickly.”
Jim, who had been nudged earnestly several times by his companion, cried quickly:
“Isn’t your friend goin’ along, too, mister?”
“No. I may as well tell you that I am a detective,” put in Steingall.
“Gee whizz! Why didn’t you cough it up earlier? Hol’ on, there! Lower that ladder. I’m with you.”
“Good old U. S. Army!” said Steingall, and Polly glowed with pride.
Jim climbed rapidly to Carshaw’s side, the latter being astride the wall. Then they vanished.
For a long time the two in the car listened intently. A couple of cyclists passed, and a small boy, prowling about, took an interest in the car, but was sternly warned off by Steingall. At last they caught the faint but easily discerned sound of heavy blows and broken woodwork.