Mr. Travers stepped back a few paces and gazed up at the house. All was
still. For a few moments he stood listening and then re-joined the
boatswain.

"Good-bye, mate," he said, hoisting himself on to the sill. "Death or
victory."

The boatswain whispered and thrust a couple of sovereigns into his hand.
"Take your time; there's no hurry," he muttered. "I want to pull myself
together. Frighten 'er enough, but not too much. When she screams I'll
come in."

Mr. Travers slipped inside and then thrust his head out of the window.
"Won't she think it funny you should be so handy?" he inquired.

"No; it's my faithful 'art," said the boat-swain, "keeping watch over her
every night, that's the ticket. She won't know no better."

Mr. Travers grinned, and removing his boots passed them out to the other.
"We don't want her to hear me till I'm upstairs," he whispered. "Put 'em
outside, handy for me to pick up."

The boatswain obeyed, and Mr. Travers--who was by no means a good hand at
darning socks--shivered as he trod lightly over a stone floor. Then,
following the instructions of Mr. Benn, he made his way to the stairs and
mounted noiselessly.

But for a slight stumble half-way up his progress was very creditable for
an amateur. He paused and listened and, all being silent, made his way