Sure enough, the skinny one did have her left elbow stuck out, and there was a bulge in the shawl.
"Looks like a case of emptyin' the ashes," says I.
"Or of placing a bomb," whispers the Lieutenant.
"Mooshwaw!" says I. "Bomb your aunt! What for should they—"
"Look now!" he breaks in. "There!"
They're advancin' in single file, slow and stealthy, and gazin' around cautious. Mainly they seem to be watchin' the back fire-escapes of the flat buildin' next door, but now and then one of 'em turns and glances towards the old house they've just left. They make straight for the shack in the corner of the yard, and in a minute more the fat one has produced a key and is fumblin' with the red padlock.
She opens the door only far enough to let the slim one slip in, then stands with her back against it, her eyes rollin' first one way and then the other.
Two or three minutes the slim one was in there, then she slides out, the door is locked, and she scuttles off towards the house, the wide one waddlin' behind her.
"My word!" gasps the Lieutenant. "Right against the wing of your factory, that shed is. And a bomb of that size would blow it into match-wood."
"That's so," says I.