ange feeling of
nervousness increasing upon him, caused partly by the weird aspect of
the scene, with all in darkness save the round patch of light on the old
drab-painted oaken door, in which glow the fingers of the workman were
busily engaged, as if they were part of some goblin performance, and
were quite distinct from any body to which they should have belonged.

He began wondering, too, whether there really was any cause for their
operations--whether poor old Brettison really did lie dead in the dusty
room beyond the double doors which held them at bay--dust to dust, the
mortal frame of the gentle old naturalist slowly decaying into the atoms
by which he was surrounded; and whether it was not something like
sacrilege to interfere with so peaceful a repose.

And all the time the little steel pick was probing about among the wards
of the lock with a curious clicking sound, above which Guest could hear
the intermittent, harsh breathing of his friend, who watched the
illuminated door with a stern, fixed gaze.

The second pick was after a time withdrawn.

"No good?" said the sergeant.

"Not a bit," growled the man, and he held his bunch of keys up to the
glass of the bull's-eye lantern.

"Don't worry, old chap," said the sergeant. Then, turning to Guest:

"Look a nice, respectable lot, we do, sir," he said. "If one of your
neighbours was to see us he'd be slipping off to fetch all the police he
could find, to see what we were about."

"Wish you'd hold that there light still," growled his follower. "Who's
to find a pick with your bobbing it about like that?"

"All right. Don't get shirty, my lad;" and then, as a fresh pick was
selected, and the man began operating again, the sergeant placed his
hand beside his mouth, after directing the light full on the keyhole,
and whispered to Guest:

"I'm afraid you're right, sir."

"What do you mean?"

"What you thought, sir. There's somebody lying in there, sure as sure,
or my mate here wouldn't turn like he has."

"Oh, nonsense!" whispered Guest uneasily.

"No, sir; it's right enough. He's like a good dog; has a kind of
feeling when there's something wrong."

"There you go again," growled the operator. "Keyhole ain't on the
ceiling, mate, nor yet on the floor."

"Oh, all right."

"But it ain't all right. I've got only two hands, or I'd hold the
blessed bulls-eye myself."

"There you are, then; will that do?"

"Do? Why, of course it will," growled