"And who is that he is talking to? A bookmaker?"
"Yes, sir, that's Naylor—Bob Naylor. He's got Mr. Richard's bets. P'raps he's puttin' on a bit more now."
The men at the gate separated, and the bookmaker walked off down the street in the fast gathering dusk. Richard Telfer, however, entered the house, and Dorrington followed him. Telfer mounted the stairs and went into his room. Dorrington lingered a moment on the stairs and then went and knocked at Telfer's door.
"Hullo!" cried Telfer, coming to the door and peering out into the gloomy corridor.
"I beg pardon," Dorrington replied courteously. "I thought this was Naylor's room."
"No—it's No. 23, by the end. But I believe he's just gone down the street."
Dorrington expressed his thanks and went to his own room. He took one or two small instruments from his bag and hurried stealthily to the door of No. 23.
All was quiet, and the door opened at once to Dorrington's picklock, for there was nothing but the common tumbler rim-lock to secure it. Dorrington, being altogether an unscrupulous
