We found ourselves in a long, low corridor lit by one gas jet, which was flickering away feebly over a baize door at the end. Except for the loud ticking of a clock in the room opposite, the place was as silent as a tomb.
Up the passage we crept, our ears strained for the first sound of danger. Billy made a mean effort to get to the baize door first, but I just managed to forestall him. Gripping the handle, I swung it open, at the same time raising my revolver ready to shoot if it were needed.
We were looking into the hall, a square, ill-furnished, dimly lit place, from which a staircase ran up to the floor above. There were a couple of doors opposite, both shut, and behind one of them we could hear the sound of voices.
Billy laid his hand on my arm, and for a moment we stood there motionless. Then came the unmistakable clatter of dice, followed a moment later by a burst of laughter and a peculiarly foul Spanish oath. In a second we had crossed the hall.
"Madre de Dios! I'm tired of this. You have the luck of Satan!"
There was the scrape of a chair as the speaker pushed back his seat.
Billy's hand was on the door-knob.
"Ready, Jack?" he whispered.
I nodded.
There was a crash, a gleam of light, and side by side we hurled ourselves into the room.