Godfrey's face was flaming with excitement as he turned the knob of
this door gently--gently. The door was locked. He stooped and applied
an eye to the key-hole.
"The key is in the lock," he whispered.
Simmonds took from his pocket a pair of slender pliers and passed
them over.
Godfrey looked up and down the street, saw that for the moment there
was no one near, inserted the pliers in the key-hole, grasped the end
of the key, and turned it slowly.
"Now!" he said, softly opened the door and slipped inside. I
followed, and Simmonds came after me like a shadow, closing the door
carefully behind him.
Then we all stopped, and my heart, at least, was in my mouth, for,
from somewhere overhead, came the sound of a man's voice talking
excitedly.
Even in the semi-darkness, I could see the look of astonishment and
alarm on Godfrey's face, as he stood for a moment motionless,
listening to that voice. I also stood with ears a-strain, but I could
make nothing of what it was saying; then suddenly I realised that it
was speaking in French. And yet it was not Armand's voice--of that I
was certain.
Fronting us was a narrow stair mounting steeply to the story
overhead, and, after that moment's amazed hesitation, Godfrey sat
down on the bottom step and removed his shoes, motioning us to do the
same.
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