fog. A similar door faced it across this area, and Raffles had
the lantern close against it, and was hiding the light with his
body, when a short and sudden crash made my heart stand still.
Next moment I saw the door wide open, and Raffles standing within
and beckoning me with a jimmy.

"Door number one," he whispered. "Deuce knows how many more
there'll be, but I know of two at least. We won't have to make
much noise over them, either; down here there's less risk."

We were now at the bottom of the exact fellow to the narrow stone
stair which we had just descended: the yard, or well, being the
one part common to both the private and the business premises.
But this flight led to no open passage; instead, a singularly
solid mahogany door confronted us at the top.

"I thought so," muttered Raffles, handing me the lantern, and
pocketing a bunch of skeleton keys, after tampering for a few
minutes with the lock. "It'll be an hour's work to get through
that!"

"Can't you pick it?"

"No: I know these locks. It's no use trying. We must cut it out,
and it'll take us an hour."

It took us forty-seven minutes by my watch; or, rather, it took
Raffles; and never in my life have I seen anything more
deliberately done. My part was simply to stand by with the dark
lantern in one hand, and a small bottle of rock-oil in the other.