the estate.

In an open grate was a dying fire; in front of it a flat desk
covered with papers and japanned tin boxes.

"You stay here till I fetch Mr. Carey, and the servants,"
commanded the watchman. "Don't try to get out, and," he added
menacingly, "don't make no noise." With his revolver he
pointed at the two windows. They were heavily barred. "Those
bars keep Mr. Carey in," he said, "and I guess they can keep
you in, too. The other watchman," he added, "will be just
outside this door." But still he hesitated, glowering with
suspicion; unwilling to trust them alone. His face lit with
an ugly smile.

"Mr. Carey's very bad to-night," he said; "he won't keep his
bed and he's wandering about the house. If he found you by
yourselves, he might----"

The young man, who had been staring at the fire, swung sharply
on his heel.

"Get-to-hell-out-of-here!" he said. The watchman stepped into
the hall and was cautiously closing the door when a man sprang
lightly up the front steps. Through the inch crack left by
the open door the trespassers heard the newcomers eager
greeting.

"I can't get him right!" he panted. "He's snoring like a hog."