He tried the inner door tentatively. It was locked, of course--but it
was locked only for an instant. From the girdle under his vest came a
little steel instrument; there was a faint, almost inaudible, protesting
_snip_ from the interior of the lock; and, his fingers turning the knob
with a steady, silent pressure, he opened the door slightly.
Crouched there, he listened. And then, a smile of relief flickering on
his lips, he pushed the door open, and slipped into the hallway. The
explanation of the light upstairs was that it had probably been left
burning inadvertently. They were still at dinner, for he could hear
voices from the dining room at the rear of the hall.
As silent as a shadow now, Jimmie Dale, closing the inside door, moved
across the hall, and went up the stairs. On the landing he paused; and
then advanced cautiously. The light streamed out from the open door of
the front room, and there was always the possibility that--no, a glance
from where he stood close against the wall at the edge of the door jamb,
showed him that the room was unoccupied.
He entered the room quickly, crossed quickly to a quaint old escritoire
against the opposite wall, and stooped beside it.
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