insistently. "Seven-three-nine." What did "seven-three-nine"
mean? She shook her head helplessly. Well, what did it matter?
She dismissed further consideration of it. She repeated to herself
Gypsy Nan's directions for finding the spring of the secret drawer.
She forced herself to think of anything that would bar the entry
of that fear which stood lurking at the threshold of her mind.

From time to time she consulted her watch - and each time hurried
the faster.

It was five minutes past one when, stealing silently along a black
lane, and counting against the skyline the same number of buildings
she had previously counted on the street from the corner, she
entered an equally black yard, and reached the back door of
Skarbolov's little store. She felt out with her hands and found
the padlock, and her fingers pressed on the link in the chain that
Gypsy Nan had described. It gave readily. She slipped it free,
and opened the door. There was faint, almost inaudible, protesting
creak from the hinges. She caught her breath quickly. Had anybody
heard it? It - it had seemed like a cannon shot. And then her lips
curled in sudden self-contempt. Who was there to hear it?

She stepped forward, closed the door silently behind her, and drew
out her flashlight. The ray cut through the blackness. She was
in what seemed like a small, outer storeroom, that was littered
with an untidy collection of boxes, broken furniture, and odds and
ends of all sorts. Ahead of her was an open door, and, through
this, the flashlight disclosed the shop itself. She switched off
the light now as she moved forward-there were the front windows,
and, used too freely, the light might by some unlucky chance be