out into the bottom of a deep,
square well of 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.

Raffles had produced a pretty embroidered case, intended obviously for
his razors, but filled instead with the tools of his secret trade,
including the rock-oil. From this case he selected a "bit," capable of
drilling a hole an inch in diameter, and fitted it to a small but very
strong steel "brace." Then he took off his covert-coat and his blazer,
spread them neatly on the top step--knelt on them--turned up his shirt
cuffs--and went to work with brace-and-bit near the key-hole. But
first he oiled the bit to minimize the noise, and this he did
invariably before beginning a fresh hole, and often in the middle of
one. It took thirty-two separate borings to cut around that lock.

I noticed that through the first circular orifice Raffles thrust a
forefinger; then, as the circle became an ever-lengthening oval, he got
his hand through up to the thumb; and I heard him swear softly to
himself.

"I was afraid so!"

"What is it?"

"An iron gate on the other side!"

"How on earth are we to get through that?" I asked in dismay.

"Pick the lock. Bu