He reached the landing, and paused again, his right hand, with a vicious
muzzle of his automatic peeping now from between his fingers, thrown
a little forward. It was black, utterly black, around him. Again that
stealthy, catlike tread--and his ear was at the keyhole of the Sanctuary
door. A full minute, priceless though it was, passed; then, satisfied
that the room was empty, he drew his head back from the keyhole, and
those slim, tapering fingers, that in their tips seemed to embody
all the human senses, felt over the lock. Apparently it had been
undisturbed; but that was no proof that Whitey Mack had not been there
after finding the metal case. Whitey Mack was known to be clever with a
lock--clever enough for that, anyhow.
He slipped in the key, turned it, and, on hinges that were always oiled,
silently pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold. He
closed the door until it was just ajar, that any sound might reach him
from without--and, whipping off his coat, began to undress swiftly.
There was no light. He dared not use the gas; it might be seen from the
alleyway. He was moving now quickly, surely, silently here and there.
It was like some weird spectre figure, a little blacker than the
surrounding darkness, flitting about the room. The oilcloth in the
corner was turned back, the loose flooring lifted, the clothes of Jimmie
Dale taken out, the rags of Larry the Bat put in.
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