He waited for another half-hour, because, for some reason or other, the usually deserted street became annoyingly crowded. First came a belated coal cart and a miserably bedraggled carman who cried his wares dolefully. Then a small boy, escaping from the confines of his domestic circle, came to revel in the downpour and wade ecstatically but thoroughly through the puddles that had formed on the uneven surface of the road. Nemesis, in the shape of a shrill-voiced mother, overtook the boy and sent him whining and expectant to the heavy hand of maternal authority. With the coast clear Mr. Lane lost no time. In effecting an entrance to the headquarters of the “Borough Lot,” Mr. Lane’s method lacked subtlety. He climbed over the gate leading to the yard, trusting inwardly that he was not observed, but taking his chance. Had he been an accomplished burglar, with the experience of any exploits behind him, he would have begun by making a very thorough inspection of likely windows. Certainly he would never have tried the “office” door. Being the veriest tyro, and being conscious, moreover, that his greatest feats had connection with doors carelessly left ajar, he tried the door, and to his delight it opened. Again the skilled craftsman would have suspected some sort of treachery, and might have withdrawn; but Mr. Lane, recognizing in the fact that the old man had forgotten to fasten the door behind him only yet another proof of that benevolent Providence which exerts itself for the express service of men “in luck,” entered boldly. He lit a candle stump and looked around. The evidence of that wealth which is the particular possession of “master-men” was not evident. Indeed, the floor of the passage was uncarpeted, and the walls bare of picture or ornament. Nor was the “office,” a little room leading from the “passage,” any more prolific of result. Such fixtures as there were had apparently been left behind by the previous tenant, and these were thick with dust. “Bah!” said the inquisitive Mr. Lane scornfully, and his words echoed hollowly as in an empty house. With the barren possibilities of his exploit before him, Mr. Lane’s spirits fell. He was of the class, to whom reference has already been made, that looked in awe and reverence toward the “Borough Lot” in the same spirit as the youthful curate might regard the consistory of bishops. In his cups--pewter cups they were with frothing heads a-top--he was wont to boast that his connection with the “Borough Lot” was both close and intimate. A rumor that went around to the effect that the “mouthpiece” who defended him at the closing of the unsatisfactory horsehair episode had been paid for by the “Borough Lot” he did not trouble to contradict. If he had known any of them, even by sight, he would not at that moment have been effecting a burglarious entry into their premises.