Read Online Detection by Gaslight by Douglas G. Greene - Free Book Online

Hewitt appeared.
    â€œCome,” he said, “there’s nobody about now; we’ll lose no time. I’ve bought a pair of pliers and a few nails.”
    We re-entered the yard at the door of the last stable. Hewitt stooped and examined the padlock. Taking a nail in his pliers he bent it carefully against the brick wall. Then using the nail as a key, still held by the pliers, and working the padlock gently in his left hand, in an astonishingly few seconds he had released the hasp and taken off the padlock. “I’m not altogether a bad burglar,” he remarked. “Not so bad, really.”
    The padlock fastened a bar which, when removed, allowed the door to be opened. Opening it, Hewitt immediately seized a candle stuck in a bottle which stood on a shelf, pulled me in, and closed the door behind us.
    â€œWe’ll do this by candle-light,” he said, as he struck a match. “If the door were left open it would be seen from the street. Keep your ears open in case anybody comes down the yard.”
    The part of the shed that we stood in was used as a coach-house, and was occupied by a rather shabby tradesman’s cart, the shafts of which rested on the ground. From the stall adjoining came the sound of the shuffling and trampling of an impatient horse.
    We turned to the cart. On the name-board at the side were painted in worn letters the words, “Schuyler, Baker.” The address, which had been below, was painted out.
    Hewitt, took out the pins and let down the tail-board. Within the cart was a new bed-mattress which covered the whole surface at the bottom. I felt it, pressed it from the top, and saw that it was an ordinary spring mattress—perhaps rather unusually soft in the springs. It seemed a curious thing to keep in a baker’s cart.
    Hewitt, who had set the candle on a convenient shelf, plunged his arm into the farthermost recesses of the cart and brought forth a very long French loaf, and then another. Diving again he produced certain loaves of the sort known as the “plain cottage”—two sets of four each, each set baked together in a row. “Feel this bread,” said Hewitt, and I felt it. It was stale—almost as hard as wood.
    Hewitt produced a large pocket-knife, and with what seemed to me to be superfluous care and elaboration, cut into the top of one of the cottage loaves. Then he inserted his fingers in the gap he had made and firmly but slowly tore the hard bread into two pieces. He pulled away the crumb from within till there was nothing left but a rather thick outer shell.
    â€œNo,” he said, rather to himself than to me, “there’s nothing in that.” He lifted one of the very long French loaves and measured it against the interior of the cart. It had before been propped diagonally, and now it was noticeable that it was just a shade longer than the inside of the cart was wide. Jammed in, in fact, it held firmly. Hewitt produced his knife again, and divided this long loaf in the centre; there was nothing but bread in that . The horse in the stall fidgeted more than ever.
    â€œThat horse hasn’t been fed lately, I fancy,” Hewitt said. “We’ll give the poor chap a bit of this hay in the corner.”
    â€œBut,” I said, “what about this bread? What did you expect to find in it? I can’t see what you’re driving at.”
    â€œI’ll tell you,” Hewitt replied, “I’m driving after something I expect to find, and close at hand here, too. How are your nerves to-day—pretty steady? The thing may try them.”
    Before I could reply there was a sound of footsteps in the yard outside, approaching. Hewitt lifted his finger instantly for silence and whispered hurriedly, “There’s only one. If he comes here, we grab him.”
    The steps came nearer and stopped outside the door. There was a pause, and then a slight drawing in of breath, as of a person suddenly