Just as the clocks were striking three, Raymond stole cautiously into the alley at the rear of the Agnew gallery. Then he was joined after a judicious interval by his two comrades.
Elliott remained near the mouth of the alley to watch for "bobbies." Raymond and Philips stealthily made their way over the back fence and to a rear window, whose sill was about eight feet from the ground.
Straining his ears for any ominous sound, Philips braced his big body to bear Raymond's weight. Then he made a stirrup of his hand and Raymond sprang like a cat to his shoulders.
Crouching in the darkness, Elliott watched and waited while Raymond applied his jimmy to the window. "Click" went the fastenings—but not too loud. The sash was cautiously raised and Harry Raymond dropped to the floor inside.
Unluckily for the owners of the Gainsborough, the watchmen were asleep on an upper floor. Raymond, with the clever thief's characteristic caution, first groped his way to the front door to see if he could unfasten it and thus provide a second avenue of escape for use in an emergency. But the locks and bars were too much for him and he gave up the attempt.
By the dim rays of his dark lantern he could see the gallery's pride—the famous Gainsborough, hanging on what picture dealers know as "the line"—that is to say, about five feet from the floor.
The place was as quiet as the grave. A sudden sound gave Raymond a start—but it was only a cat that came mewing out of the darkness. Outside a cab rattled by and the heavy tread of a policeman's feet echoed through the street.
Raymond procured a table, which he placed before the portrait. By standing upon it he was barely able to reach the top. With a long, sharp knife he carefully slashed the precious canvas from its heavy gold frame.