I dropped the sack, and it fell with a clatter, but neither of us noticed it. With both arms clasping her tight I whispered,
"Yes, for another kiss."
She kissed me again, then again. "Now will you come with me to get the rings?" she panted.
"Yes," said I, and loosed my hold of her.
Picking up the sack, I carried it to the window and dropped it softly on the ground, outside. We passed out through the drawing-room and into the antechamber, then stopped at the foot of the stairs to listen. There was not a sound. Up the stairs we stole, stepping close to the wall to lessen the chance of creaking planks, but there was no danger, for the stairway was of heavy oak. On a landing we stopped again. It was silent as the grave, and about as dark, but for some reason I did not like it. A burglar gets to have instincts, like a wild animal or a cat or any other prowler, and several times mine have warned me of danger and saved my pelt before there was actually anything that came within the range of the ordinary senses. It's an uncanny feeling, and the only one that has ever made me nervous. Danger that you have positive evidence of ain't hard to face or get around, but danger that you feel in the air without being able actually to sense is mighty unsettling.
I put out my hand behind me, and it fell on Léontine's shoulder, and rested there. For a full three minutes we stood like two statues. Then the clocks of St. Francis Xavier and the Invalides struck the half-hour, and I realised that it must be getting daylight outside.
