“Oh, it won't break,” was the reply; “we've got the right sort of rope.”
“But how will you ever get him up again?” Montague exclaimed.
“That's all right,” said Bates; “he can climb up, or else we can let him down to the ground. We've got rope enough.”
“But suppose he loses his grip! Suppose—”
“That's all right,” said Bates, easily. “You leave that to Rodney. He's nimble—he began life as a steeple-jack. That's why I picked him.”
Rodney grinned. “I'll take my chances,” he said.
Montague gazed from one to the other, unable to think of another word to say.
“Tell me, Mr. Bates,” he asked finally, “do you often do this in your profession?”
“I've done it once before,” was the reply. “I wanted some photographs in a murder case. I've often tried back windows, and fire-escapes, and such things. I used to be a police reporter, you know, and I learned bad habits.”
“But,” said Montague, “suppose you were caught?”