But the man did not ring. He did not stop at the door at all. On
tiptoe he skirted the veranda to the old-fashioned bay windows at
the south side of the living room; windows with catches as
old-fashioned and as simple to open as themselves.
Lad padded along, a pace or so to the rear;--still hopeful of
being petted or perhaps even romped with. The man gave a faint
but promising sign of intent to romp, by swinging his small and
very shiny brown bag to and fro as he walked. Thus ever did the
Master swing Lad's precious canton flannel doll before throwing
it for him to retrieve. Lad made a tentative snap at the bag, his
tail wagging harder than ever. But he missed it. And, in another
moment the man stopped swinging the bag and tucked it under his
arm again as he began to mumble with a bit of steel.
There was the very faintest of clicks. Then, noiselessly the
window slid upward. A second fumbling sent the wooden inside
shutters ajar. The man worked with no uncertainty. Ever since his
visit to the Place, a week earlier, behind the aegis of a big and
bright and newly forged telephone-inspector badge, he had carried
in his trained memory the location of windows and of obstructing
furniture and of the primitive small safe in the living room
wall, with its pitifully pickable lock;--the safe wherein the
Place's few bits of valuable jewelry and other compact treasures
reposed at night.
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