had turned about and thundered out again, and the great doors had swung shut.
But during that tumult of sound a strange thing had taken place. In the darkness of the wharf-shed the cover of that piano-crate had apparently taken on life, had quietly and silently opened, as though it were a huge bivalve. And from that mouth-like orifice, inch by inch and with infinite precaution, a human figure had sidled out. Then, having cautiously replaced the cover, this figure had slipped back into the deeper shadows between the pungent tiers of crated lemons.
It had had its discomforts, that hurried journey in a cramped piano-crate, for all its eighteen inches of excelsior padding. But Kestner had not given that feature of the plan much thought. For he had been satisfied with the knowledge that he and Lambert were to be locked together in that silent warehouse, and could remain there without interruption.
