Nothing happened, however, and, after waiting several minutes, Mr. Bates regained his courage. Very gingerly he again raised the sash, and with extreme caution inserted his head through the empty window-frame. It was the kitchen; of that there could be no doubt, an unpleasing odour of boiled cabbage and damp clothes and dirty plates attesting to the professional deficiencies of the owner's late servant. Raising himself upon his hands, Mr. Bates lifted his leg and scrambled in noiselessly over the sill. Then he felt in his pocket for a match. By the aid of a dry portion of his trousers he struck it without any superfluous noise, and, shading it with his hand, gazed nervously about him. It was evident that Mr. Andrew's vaunt had not been an entirely idle one. The room was in a state of shocking disorder. Heaped up anyhow on the table were the dirty appliances of at least three meals. A mountainous pile of ashes beneath the grate bore eloquent testimony to daily tasks neglected, and at least three pairs of uncleaned boots scattered about the floor did nothing to remove the impression. Mr. Bates looked round with a disapproving and disgusted eye. A tidy man by nature and training, his fingers itched to set about this confusion. The flame of the match reaching his thumb, however, reminded him sharply that he was there upon other and more pressing business. Dropping the charred stump with a mild and whispered oath, he ignited a second, and by its light perceived, on the further side of the apartment, an open door leading into a larder. On a shelf against the wall he could just detect the outline of a cold chicken, apparently still intact. Mr. Bates did not wait for an invitation. In a moment he had crossed the floor and entered this attractive storehouse. Seizing the chicken, he held up the match and gazed round for further contributions. Half a loaf of bread was the first object to meet his eye, and this, together with a small piece of German sausage, which he found on a plate behind it, satisfied his requirements. Thrusting his booty under his arm, and throwing down his second match, which by this time had burnt itself away, he stepped out into the darkness of the kitchen. As he did so, a slight sound made him pause. An instant later there was a sharp click, and then a blinding flare of electric light suddenly flooded the room. Mr. Bates staggered back against the wall, his plunder and his jaw dropping at the same moment. An elderly gentleman in a Jaeger dressing-gown with a revolver in his hand, was leaning comfortably against the kitchen door. He was clean-shaven, with longish white hair. A pleasant, if somewhat ironical, smile lurked about his face. "_Flagrante delicto_, Mr. Burglar," he remarked, "or, to use a language with which you are possibly better acquainted, caught in the act, eh?" Mr. Bates licked his lips, which felt very dry. "Yes, sir," he whispered.