"Look out there!" he growled low to himself, "I don't want to leave the tip of one of my fingers in exchange for what I've taken. Now," he added, "the question is--how shall I get out of this hole? My knowledge of old Mother Sheppard's diggings in the past ought to serve me in good stead to-night. If I can only manage to slip into the dark passage that leads to the kitchen, I know there's a capital hidey-hole under the stairs, where I've lain in ambush as a boy, and into which I expect I could squeeze again at a pinch."
Sure enough, before Madelaine had re-entered the house and reached the sitting-room with her lamp, the intruder had gained the coveted refuge, and was crouching down unseen within the recess. Here he remained, cramped and silent, until the last sounds had died away in the house, and the uneasy watcher had laid herself down to rest. Not till then did he creep forth from his shelter and make his way to the kitchen, into which he walked as one intimate with the place.
"Mother Sheppard generally had a shakedown in the room at the side," he soliloquized. "If she's as deaf as she used to be, there's not much fear of disturbing her, even if I dance a hornpipe on the table. Anyway, there's no doubt she's a good sleeper, judging by the noise she makes over it. Sounds more like a concert of tin whistles and drums, than one old woman snoring!"
The burglar peeped in at the half-open door, and by the light which came from the still flickering fire in the kitchen, he made out the humble couch whereon Mrs. Sheppard lay.
"Wonder if she keeps her hoard under her pillow," he continued. "They say these skinflints usually do. Anyhow it's worth a search, and I'll hope for a bit of good fortune this time."
He went up to the bed and gently inserted his hand beneath the bolster, on which reposed the aged head with its close-fitting nightcap and neat grey hair.
"Nothing there!" he said. "Perhaps it's under the mattress. I'll have one more try, and then I'll go."
If a flash-light had been turned at that moment suddenly upon the scene, it would have disclosed the evil look of triumph which just then rested on the man's face. With a sardonic grin he withdrew his arm, clutching in his hand a leather bag, tied tightly up with knotted string. Returning to the kitchen, he quietly let himself out by the back door, after having feasted royally upon goodly slices of the bread and ham which he found so conveniently ready to his use in the old dame's cupboard.
"Now, where are those two nice fat ducks I collared so cleverly before I went round to the front?" he said. "One of them nearly gave me away when I cotched it round the neck. I thought some one would be sure to hear its parting quack. I'll be off with them and the rest of the swag to Westmarket, before the sun is up, and amuse myself there for a few days, before coming back here to pay my respects to the old man. No one saw me to-night, and if I turn up like a good innocent prodigal son in a week's time, not a soul will connect me with this neat little job."
It would indeed be difficult to decide which of the three inhabitants of the cottage was most distressed when the morning revealed to them their loss.