The other side of the high fence only brought him into another back yard, and he saw that the houses were as high as those on Salisbury Street.
“If there’s a side alley and gate, I can make it easily,” he murmured. “Durn my luck, there isn’t!” he added a moment later, after a hasty survey. “The house is the full width of the yard.”
There were high, wooden fences on both sides. But he did not see that climbing over them, one after another, was likely to help him. Sooner or later he would run into somebody in one of the yards. Then he would have to explain why he was there, and he might have to tell his story to the chief of police.
“I won’t take any risk of meeting that gentleman, or any of his men, if it can be helped.”
T. Burton Potter came to this decision very quickly, and with much earnestness. For reasons of his own, he did not care to be brought into contact with blue coats and brass buttons on that night of all others.
“It will be daylight in course of time,” he reflected. “Then I should have to find my way out. I wonder if I can’t get through this house. It’s the only chance I have!”
He stole up to the back door. It was locked and bolted, of course.
“Didn’t suppose there would be any chance that way,” he muttered. “But there’s a little window, belonging to a pantry, I guess. By Jove! It’s open, I see. That’s to let air into the place, for the benefit of the milk or butter or something.”
The window was too high for Mr. Potter to reach, but, as has been remarked several times, he was an athlete, and as active as a monkey. With a short, swift run, he managed to leap up and catch the sill with his fingers.
It was not easy to pull himself up, and, if he had not been in good physical training, he never could have accomplished the feat. As it was, he was up and peering through the open window in a few seconds.