“Hello there!” he called. “George, I say! George!”
He listened for a moment, then came up and tried the door. I crouched inside, as guilty as the veriest house-breaker in the business. But he had no suspicion, clearly, for he turned and went away, whistling as he went.
Not until we heard him going down the street again, absently running his night-stick along the fence palings, did Sperry or I move.
“A narrow squeak, that,” I said, mopping my face.
“A miss is as good as a mile,” he observed, and there was a sort of exultation in his voice. He is a born adventurer.
He came out into the passage and quickly locked the door behind him.
“Now, friend Horace,” he said, “if you have anything but toothpicks for matches, we will look for the overcoat, and then we will go upstairs.”
“Suppose he wakens and raises an alarm?”
“We’ll be out of luck. That’s all.”
As we had anticipated, there was no overcoat in the library, and after listening a moment at the kitchen door, we ascended a rear staircase to the upper floor. I had, it will be remembered, fallen from a chair on a table in the dressing room, and had left them thus overturned when I charged the third floor. The room, however, was now in perfect order, and when I held my candle to the ceiling, I perceived that the bullet hole had again been repaired, and this time with such skill that I could not even locate it.