As he spoke the young man took a pound canister of fine gun-powder from the portmanteau pushing the latter afterwards outside into the passage. Then with a small funnel, also provided in the portmanteau, and fitted with a curved piece of pipe, to fill the interior of the lock with the fine black dust, which ran away down the funnel and pipe as easily as sand from one side to another of an hour-glass. "This is the way," said Arthur, eagerly. "I shall get pretty well half a pound in." It seemed quite probable, for the powder ran trickling on, every stoppage being overcome by a shake or a tap or two, till at last, no matter how the door was rapped, no more would go down. "Doesn't matter; there's plenty," said the young man, quietly, thrusting in a piece of ready prepared slow match, which hung down the front of the door and half a yard over the floor, where the powder sprinkled about was carefully dusted away. Then by means of a wedge some scraps of rag were driven in tightly to fill up the key-hole, and the young man rose up. "There we are, old chap," he said. "All we've got to do is to open the lantern, touch the end of that slow match in the light, let it go down-- stop a minute, let's blow away a little more of the powder--then there'll be plenty of time to shut and lock the door, wait for the blow-out of the lock, and go in after and pick up the best pieces, fill our Gladstones as we like and be off." He went down on his knees, and, trembling violently, Roach held up the lantern, as he stood quiet outside now. "Here! How am I to see?" cried his companion, angrily. "But it isn't safe to bring a light near the powder." "Bosh! How can a light behind glass do any harm? Come closer, I mustn't leave any powder near the slow match. That's better; I can see now, and--Ah! take care." For all at once the butler fell over him with a crash, the lantern struck against the opposite wall and came open, the lamp portion falling out and firing some of the scattered powder, while at the same moment the lobby door was banged to, shut, and they heard the shooting of the lock. CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE. THE COLLECTOR WAKES UP. Professor Westcott, next door, had another consignment that morning. The London and North Western Railway Company's men called with their van and a way-bill to deliver two chests from Birmingham, weighing over two hundredweight each, both strongly screwed up and roped, and a smaller line round them, carefully-sealed:--"Books; with great care. To be kept dry." There were two men with the van, and a boy, the former making very light of the heavy chests as they lifted them off the tail-board of the vehicle, while the professor stood blinking on the steps in his big spectacles, his grey hair hanging down long from beneath a black velvet skull-cap, and his rusty dressing-gown, tied on anyhow, reaching nearly to his heels. "Rum old owl, Joe," said one of the men. "This makes six chesties I've delivered since Christmas."