Here we paused, crouching down side by side, and surveying the back of the house with a kind of suppressed exhilaration.
Billy laid his hand on my sleeve. "Look here, Jack," he whispered, "I'll trail across first and see how the land lies. You stop here, and cover me with the gun. You're a better shot than I am."
It was just like Billy to bag the dangerous work with such an excuse, but this was no time for arguing. "Go on, then," I said. "Give me a hoot when you want me to join you."
He wriggled off noiselessly through the undergrowth in the direction of a large fir tree, which cast a gloomy shadow straight across the lawn. For a moment I was just able to make him out, creeping silently down this sombre pathway.
I shifted my gaze to the house and, revolver in hand, watched keenly for any sign of life. There were four windows looking out at the back, two on the ground floor and two above. They were all in darkness and, so far as I could see, tightly closed.
I spotted Billy once more, just by the back door. Then he disappeared again, and for perhaps five minutes I waited in cold tension, my eyes fixed steadily on the house.
Suddenly, very faint, came the hoot of an owl.
I thrust the revolver into my hip pocket, and picking my way through the undergrowth, cautiously followed Billy's track across the lawn. I found him crouching down under the left-hand window, almost invisible against the thick creeper.
"I've got it," he whispered, putting his lips right up against my ear. "There's a window open at the side—the pantry, I think. We can get in there."
He led the way round, stealthily as a panther, and I followed, clutching the spanner affectionately in my hand. The distance could not have been more than about twelve yards, but I have never reached a destination safely with greater thankfulness.