Chapter Twenty Two.
Man Masters
“At last!” muttered Chester, as he stood, pale and careworn, leaning upon the iron rail in the Row, watching the carriages slowly filing by, or stopping from time to time.
For after days and days of watching, he was once more about to give up in despair and venture, in spite of all rebuffs, upon another call at the house, when in the distance he caught sight of the Clareborough’s light victoria approaching, and to his great delight he found that it only contained one occupant.
He hesitated for a few moments as to what he should do – wait, or advance to meet it, and decided now upon a bold attack, for every nerve was on the strain.
“I will not be put off this time,” he said to himself. “She shall acknowledge me.”
As he approached his heart began to beat fast and he gazed upon the elegantly-dressed figure leaning carelessly back with her face shaded by the tinted parasol she held, and, as yet unobserved, Chester saw that she looked pale, troubled and weary, her half-closed eyes dreamy and thoughtful.
Fate favoured him, for there was a block somewhere ahead, and the horses were stopped only a few yards away.
He passed under the rail, walked up quickly, still unobserved, till his hand was upon the carriage door.
“Marion!” he whispered.
She gave a violent start, the blood suffused her cheeks, and then fled, leaving her deadly pale, as she gazed at him with dilating eyes.
“I beg your pardon,” she said coldly, “you addressed me?”
“Yes,” he said in a low voice which trembled a little from the excess of his emotion, “but we are alone now, Marion. For pity’s sake let there be an end to this.”
“Ah, I remember,” she said in her low, musical tones, “you are the strange gentleman who addressed me before. You are repeating your mistake, sir.”
“Indeed!” he said reproachfully, as he fixed her eyes with his. “Do you think I could ever be mistaken?”
She bowed slightly and drew a little back, glancing hurriedly at the driver, and then looking ahead as if eager for the carriage to proceed.
“How can you be so cruel?” he whispered. “Marion, you are maddening me!”
He saw her wince, but with wonderful self-command she sat rigid as she said slowly —
“I beg, sir, that there may be an end of this. Can you not see that you are making a mistake, and are insulting an unprotected woman?”
She looked him fully in the eyes now with a calm air of wonderment, and for the moment he was in doubt.
But the next moment his heart said no, and his pulses increased their beat. No accidental resemblance could have produced that effect upon him. He knew that there was something which he could not explain – a strange vitality or occult force which bound him to her, and, though his eyes might have erred, his nature could have made no such blunder, and he was eager to continue the attack now the opportunity was there.
“Mistaken?” he said in a low, impassioned tone; “how could I be mistaken? From the first moment you came to me, your looks, the tones of your voice in your appeal to me for help, awoke something which till then had slumbered within me. I had lived in ignorance of the reality of such a passion, one which has gone on growing like a torrent ever since. It has swept all before it since the hour I knew that I had found my fate.”
“My good sir,” she said firmly and gently; “indeed you are taking me for someone else.”
He smiled as he gazed at her intently.
“For whom?” he said.
“I cannot say; some friend. It is an accidental resemblance, and once more – I appeal to you as a gentleman to cease this persecution.”
He shook his head sadly.
“Accidental resemblance? No. There is but one Marion on earth. No woman ever resembled you in any way. This is impossible. Marion, be merciful. After the night on which I saw you last, what must you think of me? Of what manner of man could I be if, after striving so hard to gain an interview like this, I could let you throw me over in so cruel a way? Marion, for pity’s sake. There must be stronger reasons than I already know of to make you act like this.”
She glanced round wildly for a moment or two, as if in dread that they were being observed and his words were taking the attention of the people around, then up at the coachman, but he sat erect and stolid, too well schooled in his duties to have a thought or eyes for anything but the beautiful pair of horses under his charge. Then, as she realised the fact that they were perfectly unobserved by the busy throng around, she recovered her passing composure, and said quite calmly, and with a suggestion of pity in her tone for one who seemed to her to be suffering from some slight mental aberration —
“Can you not see that you are mistaken?”
“No,” he said, smiling sadly; “only that it is impossible.”
There was a faint quiver of the lips, but it passed off, and her beautiful eyes flashed, and the colour rose in her cheeks, as she made a strong effort to be firm. Then there was a touch of anger in her voice as she said coldly —
“Must I appeal to someone passing, sir, or to one of the police?”
Her words stung him to the quick, “No,” he whispered huskily; “there is no need. If you are made of steel and can act to me like this, I must suffer; but do not insult me by treating me as if I were insane. I could bear it from your brother; not from you, Miss Clareborough.”
She winced slightly at the utterance of her name, and he fancied that there was the light of compassion for one brief moment in her eyes.
His own face hardened now in the bitterness and despair of the moment as he took out his pocket-book, and in spite of her self-command she watched his action narrowly as he drew out the carefully-folded handkerchief stained with blood.
“I saved this inadvertently,” he continued. “Yours; marked with your initials.”
He looked her full in the eyes as he spoke, bitterly now.
“When I found it where I had hurriedly thrust it into my pocket that night, it seemed to offer itself as an excellent clue for the police to track out the mystery of the house to which I was taken.”
She leaned forward quickly and caught at the handkerchief to cover it with her hand, while he still retained his hold.
“For God’s sake, no!” she whispered, and her face convulsed with fear. “Don’t do that – the police!”
The stained scrap of cambric formed a bond between them as he gazed deeply in her eyes now, while a faint smile dawned upon his lip.
“I checked the thought at once,” he said softly. “I told myself that such an act might hurt you – might give you pain; and I set to and tried to track you without, all through the months of agony and dread for what you might have to fear from him. Take it, to destroy or save, as you will. It is yours; but do not do me the injustice to think I would retain it to hold over you in terrorem. Marion, I love you too well.”
He breathed these words in the faintest tones, but he could read that they fell heavily upon her ears, for in spite of her rigid position he saw that her eyes looked wildly and imploringly into his.
“For Heaven’s sake be silent!” she whispered faintly.
“I am your slave,” he said softly. “Take the handkerchief.”
“No, no; I trust you,” she whispered back. “I will not try to dissimulate any longer. It is impossible; but you must never speak to me again – never recognise me. I cannot explain – I am not my own mistress. It would injure others. Be merciful to me, for I have suffered deeply. Think of all that has passed as some dream. I cannot – must never see you more.”
The carriage began to move on, but he walked by the side as she continued —
“Spare me – spare those I love. I ask it of you. Now, farewell for ever, for your own sake – for mine.”
“No,” he said softly, as he walked on, unnoticed by the many they passed, for it was a commonplace thing enough to see a gentleman by a carriage door talking to its occupant. “No. You have made me more happy then I can express. The dense black cloud that has been over my life has passed away, for I know now that you have been wearing this mask for the sake of others whom you wish to spare. But you have let me see behind it; just one glimpse, but enough to show me the true nature of the woman I love.”
“Oh, hush!” she whispered. “Believe me, that is impossible. Now leave me, pray.”
“Nothing is impossible to a man who loves as I love you,” he whispered.
“No, no; once more, I tell you that we must never meet again.”
“And I tell you,” he whispered back, “that you are part of my life, and that while my heart beats I will never give you up. Marion, we must meet again sooner or later; I live for nothing else. Your hand one moment.”
“No, no!” she moaned.
“Your hand – life of my life,” he whispered softly; and as she gazed at him wildly, her hand, as if drawn by the magnetism of his nature, glided slowly into his, and was clasped in his nervous grasp.
“I am going to wait.”
“No,” she said more firmly. “This for the last time. They would kill me – they would kill you.”
“No,” he said. “An hour ago I would have welcomed death; now life opens before me in its fullest sunshine of joy. They shall not kill you; they shall not kill me, for I know you love me and have suffered, and it has made me strong.”
“Impossible, impossible,” she whispered, with her eyes fixed upon his.
Then he loosed his hold of her gloved hand, dropping back and raising his hat as the carriage rolled on.
He stood and watched it for a few minutes till it had passed out of sight, and then drawing himself up, feeling that a breach of invigorating life had run through his being, he turned to walk back across the path, and found himself nearly confronting the man who had occupied so much of his waking thoughts, and whose eyes now seemed to flash as they gazed fiercely in his.
“Well,” said Chester to himself, as he set his teeth hard, “I am ready for the worst. Am I to learn the mystery of the big house now?” And he took a step forward to meet the man he felt to be the great enemy of both their lives.
Chapter Twenty Three.
The Game is up
To Chester’s surprise James Clareborough’s face hardened and grew stony as they approached, and the next moment he had passed him without a word or the slightest sign of recognition, and when, stung by jealous solicitude for the woman he loved, Chester turned and followed, he saw his enemy take another direction to that in which Marion was being driven.
Then days passed – then weeks; and in spite of constant watchfulness Chester could not get a glimpse of her who filled his thoughts. The reason was patent – the family had left town, and he had once more to track them out. But this was easy, and in a day or two he was down at the nearest spot where he could unobserved obtain lodgings, ostensibly trout fishing the stream that meandered by The Towers, the Clareboroughs’ Kentish estate.
Still he could not obtain a second interview. He knew, though, that which filled him with exultation and patience to wait – he was loved.
There were troubles at The Towers in the lower stratum, all connected with speculation; and, though money was worthless in these days in Chester’s eyes, the speculation affected his fate.
It was in this wise: —
Roach looked puffy, and especially so beneath the eyes, where a couple of pendulous bags disfigured his important-looking countenance.
Unkind people would have said that the flushed aspect was due to drinking, but he was perfectly steady as he got out of a hansom cab, in company with Arthur, after a short run up to town, where they had arrived by a fast train that afternoon, and taking the two small, light portmanteaus which the driver handed down, each threw his overcoat across his arm, and they walked together round the corner into Highcombe Street, made for the Clareboroughs’ town house, tried the area gate, which, as they expected, was locked, and went up the steps to the front door.
“How do you feel, Arthur?” whispered Roach.
“Right as the mail, old man. Now then, no gammon. You keep your pecker up, and do the talking, and I’ll do the business. There’s nothing to mind.”
“Nothing to mind?” said Roach, as he raised his hand towards the servants’ bell, but did not ring.
“Only the handcuffs if we don’t do what we want and clear off.”
Roach groaned.
“Don’t be a fool, old man,” whispered the footman. “As I told you, we must do it now. The game’s up, and you know what Jemmy is. There’ll be no mercy, so let’s make our hay while the sun shines. Pull the bell.”
With trembling hand Roach rang the servants’ bell, and then drew a deep breath.
“That’s right, old man, pull yourself together. Think it’s going to be a lark, and after it a fortune for us both.”
“Yes, I’m going to be firm now,” growled Roach, hoarsely. “It’s our only chance, Orthur, so stand by me.”
“Like an iron post, old man. That’s the way, jolly’s the style. Here she comes.”
They caught a glimpse of the housekeeper at the side window, and directly after the door was open.
“Good-morning, ma’am,” began the butler.
“Good-morning, Mrs Barron, ma’am,” said Arthur.
She looked sternly from one to the other, without making way for them to enter.
“Why are you two men up in town?” she said harshly.
“Well, the fact is, ma’am, I had a little bit o’ business to do about my savings in the sweet threes, and as the gentlemen were all in Paris, and the ladies were not expecting any company, I made so bold as to ask Mrs James Clareborough to spare me till to-morrow night and let Orthur come with me, for I don’t like going through money matters without a witness.”
“Oh,” said the housekeeper, speaking with her lips very close together, but without drawing back. “Then why have you both come here? This is not a broker’s.”
“No, ma’am, of course not,” said Arthur, with a little laugh.
“I was not speaking to you, sir,” said the housekeeper, turning upon him suddenly. “Have the goodness to keep your place.”
“Certainly, ma’am. Beg pardon, ma’am.”
“Now, Mr Roach; what do you want here?”
“Want here, ma’am?” stammered the butler; “want here? Why, I can’t go to my broker without my warrants.”
The housekeeper’s pale face looked more pinched than ever as she gazed searchingly at the other, who looked completely taken aback; and then she darted a sharp glance at Arthur, who evidently expected it and did not look, but busied himself in bringing a little bit of vanity well into sight, the said piece of vanity taking the shape of a couple of bronze fox-head cuff studs, which he drew beyond the sleeves of his coat.
“You can go down into your pantry and get what you require,” said the housekeeper, coldly, and she made way for the butler to enter. Arthur was about to follow. “No,” she said sharply, “you can wait.”
“Wait – here, ma’am?”
“Yes,” said the housekeeper, decisively, and she made as if to shut the door. “Or, no; you can sit down inside.”
Arthur brightened up, and stepped in jauntily, the housekeeper closing the door.
“You need not take your portmanteau down with you, Roach.”
“No, ma’am, of course not,” said the butler, respectfully.
“Here, I’ll mind that, Mr Roach, sir,” said the footman, stepping forward to take the valise, after standing his own on end.
The butler was a few steps in the hall, the housekeeper between them, and a little on Arthur’s right, as he took a step forward, taking his overcoat from his arm and shaking it out the while, as if about to double it afresh. Then, quick as thought, he stepped aside, threw it over the woman’s head, and twisted it together. “Now, old man; her legs, sharp!”
Roach stood for a moment as if bewildered. Then at an oath from his companion, he stepped forward, threw his arms round the struggling woman’s legs, lifted her up, and in spite of her smothered cries bore her right to the end of the passage.
“Down with her; pantry,” said the footman, sharply, and they carried her quickly down the basement to the butler’s pantry, where they laid her on the table.
“Fetch the trunks, old man,” said Arthur, loudly. “I can manage. Quiet, you old cat, or I’ll choke you!”
He tightened the coat with a couple, of twists as he spoke, but the faint cry continued.
“Bah! let her squeak; she might howl for a month, and no one could hear.”
This, for the butler looked unnerved. He went up directly, though, and as soon as he was gone Arthur put his face to the coat, close to the old lady’s ear.
“You just listen,” he said. “You’ve had your innings, and led me a pretty devil of a life with your nasty ways. It’s my turn now. Quiet, curse you! Stop that row, or as sure as you’re a living woman now, you’ll want a coffin to-morrow.”
“What – what is it you want. Money?” came faintly.
“Never you mind what we want, old girl. There, you needn’t kick and struggle; we don’t want to carry you off and marry you by force, so lie still. Ah, that’s right; look sharp. My Gladstone, not yours. Get out the rope.”
The butler, whose face was now mottled with white patches, opened one of the portmanteaus and took out a cord.
“Now come here and lay hold. If she begins to squeal again, tighten your grip a bit.”
But the woman lay perfectly still now, and she did not even wince when the footman twisted the rope tightly round her ankles and knotted it fast.
“Now then, over on her face, guv’nor. I must have these wrists tied behind, or she may begin to scratch.”
The helpless woman was turned over, her wrists firmly secured, and she was then laid on her side and the coat taken off, to reveal her wide, staring eyes, and teeth set, with the lips drawn right away.
“You’ve killed her, my boy,” whispered the butler in a hoarse voice.
“Bah! Old cats like that have got nine lives,” said the man, contemptuously. “Here, give me a clean glass cloth, and I’ll shove a gag in her mouth.”
“No, no. She’s bad enough as it is,” whispered the butler. “Let her be.”
The footman looked at the old housekeeper dubiously, and then unwillingly gave up his project.
“Shall we put her in the plate-closet? I have the key.”
Arthur laughed.
“Why, that would smother her in half an hour. No; help me to lay her down on the hearth-rug. We can come and look at her now and then. But she won’t move. We’ve pretty well frightened her to death.”
Judging from appearances, this was the case, and after laying the unfortunate woman on the hearth-rug, they took portmanteaus and coats and hurried out into the main passage, then into that which went off at right angles, to stop in front of the lobby door.
Chapter Twenty Four.
And Grows Dangerous
The key the men possessed admitted them at once and the other portmanteau was opened, ready for use – a use which soon became plain.
“Think it’ll be all right this time?” said Roach, who was in an intense state of excitement.
“Dunno till I try,” was the reply. “Light up and look sharp.”
Roach turned to the second portmanteau, which stood inside the door, and took out a dark lantern. Then striking a match, he lit it, and in obedience to a word from his young companion, he held up the cover of the iron door key-hole with one hand, and directed the full glare of the bull’s-eye on the opening with the other.
Arthur had not been idle. Hastily doubling his overcoat, he made of it a pad to kneel upon, and then taking a bright new key from out of a piece of tissue paper, he began to try if it would fit.
“All right,” he whispered, “it goes splendidly.”
“Well done,” panted Roach. “But be quick.”
“Quick be blowed! Don’t you be so jolly nervous; there’s no one to interrupt us now.”
“Well, turn the key.”
“Won’t turn – sticks. Oil.”
Roach handed a little oil tin from the portmanteau, the key was withdrawn and lubricated and once more thrust in, to evidently act upon a part of the mechanism of the great lock, but that was all.
“Bah!” ejaculated Arthur. “I know the beggar. It’s one of that sort you see at the safe shops. When you turn the key you shoot bolts, top, bottom and both sides. It nearly does. He made it quite to the wax pattern, and it only wants a touch or two. Here, give us the file.”
“Stop a minute.”
“What’s the matter?”
“I want to see if old Mrs Barron’s safe.”
“Look alive then. No, no; give me the file first.”
The tool was handed and the active young fellow held the key close to the light and began filing away where it seemed to him the wards of the key wanted opening; and he was still busy when Roach returned. “She’s all right,” he panted, his breath coming short as if he had been running.
“Oh yes, she won’t get clear of those knots – an old cat! – I know. You take it easy, old man; we’re as safe as safe.”
“But suppose the guv’nors come back from Paris, my dear boy?”
“Won’t be back for a fortnight. You know as well as I do. Lor’ ’a’ mussy! on’y think of our taking up a game like this, old man!”
“It’s awful – it’s awful, Orthur.”
“Yah! we can’t help it. How were we to know that everything we backed would go wrong and leave us in such a hole?” said Arthur, as he filed away.
“But it seems like burglary,” whispered the butler.
“Burglary be blowed! Look here, if you’re going to whine I shall cut it, and my stick too, and you may face it out with the guv’nors. What are you going to say when they ask after that gold centre-piece, and the rest of the plate you’ve lent my uncle?”
“We’ve lent my uncle!” said the butler, reproachfully.
“Oh, well, we then. I’m ready to take my share. It was their fault, and we’re driven to this to get money to take out all you’ve pledged.”
“We’ve pledged.”
“We be hanged! You did the pledging, but I don’t want to back out of it. I’m going to stand by you. Only, you see, circumstances are against us, old man. We meant to come quietly and get enough out of here to square us and make us able to make a fresh start on our own hook – I’m sick of their tips – but as soon as we come to do it quietly, meaning to sleep here for the night, that old cat cuts up rough, and we have to quiet her. Consequence is, old man, we’ve got to go the whole thing and make ourselves rich men all at once. Don’t matter. Just as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb, so I mean to make it two sheep if I can – two sheep a-piece, old chap. There, that ought to do it now.”
He ceased filing and applied the key again, to find that he could turn it a little more.
“Almost,” he said. “Oil again.”
But the fresh oil sent it no farther, and the butler wiped his dripping brow and ejaculated —
“Tut-tut-tut-tut!”
“Look here, old chap, if you can do it better come and try yourself,” cried Arthur in an ill-used tone.
“No, no, my dear boy, I can’t. You are cleverer at such things than I am, but it’s such fidgeting work to stand here holding the light and doing nothing.”
“Never mind, it’s worth it,” said Arthur, laughing. “Think of the pearls and diamonds in here, old fellow. Now for another try. We shall be as rich as Rothschilds when we’ve done, and across the water before they can put a hand upon us. Bah! Blister the key! It’s as near as near. But I’ll do it, if I try till to-morrow morning. Here, go and see how the old girl’s getting on. Got your keys?”
“Yes, my boy, but they are no good for this.”
“Pah! who said they were? They’re good for a bottle of wine, though, ain’t they?”
“Oh yes – yes!”
“Then bring one with the cork out, and never mind a glass; and don’t stop to decant it, old chap, for I want a drink horrid bad. This is warm work.”
The butler went away on tip-toe. As he walked along the passage he heard the sharp grating of the file, and shivered with dread. But upon reaching the pantry he felt relieved, for the housekeeper seemed to be asleep.
Not content with this, Roach went up to the hall and listened. But all was perfectly still in the great solemn mansion, and he went down again, to be conscious of the scrap, scrap of the file, before he reached the pantry, where the old lady still lay unmoved.
Hastily getting a bottle of wine from the cupboard, and uncorking it, he went back, to find Arthur still filing away.
“Oh, there you are then,” he grumbled. “I was just a-coming to see if you were finishing the bottle all to your own cheek. Here, give us hold.”
He took a deep draught, and recommenced filing with renewed vigour for some minutes.
“Now,” he said, “this is the last time of trying. If it won’t do it we must do the other thing.”
He tried the key, and it turned half-way, but it was forced upon them that there was something wanting. The key did not touch some portion of the ingeniously-made lock, and the young man thrust it in his pocket.
“Better have tried the hammering at first,” he said.
“No, no! The noise,” cried Roach.
“Bah! Who’s going to take any notice of a bit of knocking?” said the young man, contemptuously. “The sound can’t reach them there.”
“But suppose a policeman heard it as he passed?”
“Well, he’d hear it and say to himself, ‘They’ve got the workpeople in.’”
“But – ”
“Oh, blow your buts, old man! Did the police come to see what was the matter when the men took out the kitchener and put in a new one?”
“No, but – ”
“But you’re in a stew. That’s what’s the matter. Give us hold. Thinnest wedge, and the hammer, and you hold the light. That piece of leather will stop the sound.”
The butler sighed, but obeyed his companion, handing him a steel wedge with an edge as fine as the blade of a knife. Then he held the light close while his companion gently tapped it in between the door and frame.
Another followed, and another – quite a dozen, of increasing sizes, having been brought; and the leather-covered hammer deadened the sound greatly, while the crack grew larger, and it seemed pretty certain that the steel wedges would sooner or later force open the door.
“See this?” said the operator, triumphantly.
“Oh yes, I see, but I’m in a bath o’ perspiration.”
“With doing nothing but hold a candle!” said Arthur, with a chuckle, as he drove in another wedge as far as it would go and released two more thinner ones. “Now I’m going to have a moment’s rest and a drink while you go and see how dear old Mrs Barron is. Whistle if you want help.”
The butler went off, and the young man drank and examined the progress he had made, and he was still examining so as to find where he could drive in the next wedge with the most effect when the butler came back.
“She hasn’t stirred,” he said.
“She can’t,” said his companion, with a laugh, and he began tapping again vigorously, but at the end of half a dozen strokes, as his hammer was poised to deliver another, there was a dull clang, and the young fellow leaped back.
“Hear that?” he said in a whisper full of triumph.
“Yes, it was like the banging to of another iron door.”
“Banging to of an iron grandmother!” cried Arthur, contemptuously; “it’s the whole front splitting away, and another wedge in will fetch it right off.”
“I hope so,” said Roach, piteously. “Do you think it will take much longer?”
“I don’t care if it takes two days,” said the other, coolly. “Don’t matter so long as we get the door open.”
Roach sighed.
“There, hold the light, and don’t do that. You are a cheerful mate, ’pon my sivvy. Here goes.”
The speaker began again, keeping a sharp lookout, so as to spring back and not be crushed by the falling door; and to this end he made Roach stand in the entrance and direct the light from there, giving him plenty of room. But the door did not fall, and at the end of an hour the hammer was thrown down.
“It’s no go.”
“Do you give it up?” cried Roach, eagerly.
“No, I don’t give it up, but I’m not going to work all the flesh off my bones when one stroke will do the work.”
“What! The powder?”
“That’s it, old chap. Go and see how the old woman is.”
Roach sighed, and went away, to return shivering.
“She looks horrible,” he whispered; “but you mustn’t think of powder, my lad. You’ll bring the people in from both sides to see what’s the matter.”
“Won’t make noise enough for that, and I sha’n’t use enough,” said Arthur, coolly. “Don’t talk. That door’s got to come open, and I wish I’d tried this plan at first.”
“But it’s too dangerous.”
“No, it isn’t. You keep quiet, and make that light shine well on the key-hole.”
As he spoke the young man took a pound canister of fine gun-powder from the portmanteau pushing the latter afterwards outside into the passage. Then with a small funnel, also provided in the portmanteau, and fitted with a curved piece of pipe, to fill the interior of the lock with the fine black dust, which ran away down the funnel and pipe as easily as sand from one side to another of an hour-glass.
“This is the way,” said Arthur, eagerly. “I shall get pretty well half a pound in.”
It seemed quite probable, for the powder ran trickling on, every stoppage being overcome by a shake or a tap or two, till at last, no matter how the door was rapped, no more would go down.
“Doesn’t matter; there’s plenty,” said the young man, quietly, thrusting in a piece of ready prepared slow match, which hung down the front of the door and half a yard over the floor, where the powder sprinkled about was carefully dusted away.
Then by means of a wedge some scraps of rag were driven in tightly to fill up the key-hole, and the young man rose up.
“There we are, old chap,” he said. “All we’ve got to do is to open the lantern, touch the end of that slow match in the light, let it go down – stop a minute, let’s blow away a little more of the powder – then there’ll be plenty of time to shut and lock the door, wait for the blow-out of the lock, and go in after and pick up the best pieces, fill our Gladstones as we like and be off.”
He went down on his knees, and, trembling violently, Roach held up the lantern, as he stood quiet outside now.
“Here! How am I to see?” cried his companion, angrily.
“But it isn’t safe to bring a light near the powder.”
“Bosh! How can a light behind glass do any harm? Come closer, I mustn’t leave any powder near the slow match. That’s better; I can see now, and – Ah! take care.”
For all at once the butler fell over him with a crash, the lantern struck against the opposite wall and came open, the lamp portion falling out and firing some of the scattered powder, while at the same moment the lobby door was banged to, shut, and they heard the shooting of the lock.