“College,” to Whitey, was a vague and generic term that signified an obscure operation by which learning, of an undreamt-of kind, was introduced to the human mind. College was a place where information was acquired which was not available elsewhere. He had the half-educated man’s respect for education. “He got into trouble over a scheme he started for a joke; a sort of you-send-me-five-shillings-and-I’ll-do-the-rest. It was so easy that when he came out of gaol he did the same thing with variations. He took up hooking just as another chap takes up collecting stamps.” They lingered over their dinner, and the hands of Fleet Street’s many clocks were pointing to half-past nine before they had finished. “We’ll walk back,” said Lambaire; “it’s fortunate that there is no caretaker at Flair Court.” “You’ve got the key of the outer door?” asked Whitey, and Lambaire nodded. They passed slowly up Ludgate Hill, arm in arm, two eminently respectable city men, top-hatted, frock-coated, at peace with the world to all outward showing, and perfectly satisfied with themselves. Flair Court runs parallel with Lothbury, and at this hour of the night is deserted. They passed a solitary policeman, trying the doors of the buildings, and he gave them a civil good night. Standing at the closed door of the building in which the office was situated, Whitey gave his companion the benefit of his views on the projected Sutton expedition. “It’s our chance, Lambaire,” he said, “and the more I think of it the bigger chance it is: why, if it came off we could run straight, there would be money to burn--we could drop the tricky things--forget ’em, Lambaire.” “That’s what I thought,” said the other, “that was my idea at the time--I was too clever, or I might have brought it off.” He blew at the key. “What is the matter?” demanded Whitey, suddenly observing his difficulty. “It’s this lock--I’m not used to the outer door--oh, here we are.” The door-key turned in the lock and the door opened. They closed it behind them, and Lambaire struck a match to light a way up the dark stairs. He lit another at the first landing, and by its light they made their way to the floor above. Here they stopped. “Strike a match, Whitey,” said Lambaire, and took a key from his pocket. For some reason the key would not turn. “That’s curious,” muttered Lambaire, and brought pressure to bear. But still the key refused to turn. Whitey fumbled at the match-box and struck another match. “Here, let me try,” he said. He pressed the key over, but without success; then he tried the handle of the door. “It isn’t locked,” he said, and Lambaire swore. “It’s that cursed fool Grene,” he said. “I’ve told him a thousand times to make certain that he closed and locked the door when he left at night.” He went into the outer office. There was no electric light in the room, and he needed more matches as he made his way to his private room. He took another key and snapped open the patent lock.