He gathered his tools together, opened the door, and stepped into the room. It had originally been a bedroom. He gathered as much from the two old-fashioned bed-pulls which hung on one wall. There was a big table in the centre of the room, and a newspaper or two. He looked at the dates and smiled--they were two days old. Whitey had not occupied that room the two days previous. Amber knew him to be an inveterate newspaper reader. There were half a dozen letters and he examined the post-marks--these too supported his view, for three had been delivered by the last post two nights before. A hasty examination of the room failed to discover any evidence that the stolen papers had been deposited there. He slipped his hand between bed and mattress, looked through contents of a despatch box, which strangely enough had been left unlocked. Though the room was comfortably furnished, there were few places where the papers could be concealed. Whitey must have them with him. Amber had hardly hoped to discover them with such little trouble. He had turned back the corner of the hearthrug before the fireplace, and was on the point of examining a pile of old newspapers which stood on a chair in the corner of the room, when he heard footsteps in the street without. They were coming down the street--now they had stopped before the hotel. He heard the far-off tinkle of a bell and was out of the room in a second. He did not attempt to lock the door behind him, contenting himself with fastening it. There were low voices in the hall below, and interchange of speech between the porter and the new arrivals, and Amber nimbly mounted to the floor above as he heard footsteps ascending. It was Whitey and Lambaire. He heard the sibilant whisper of the one and the growl of the other. Whitey unlocked the landing door and passed in, followed by Lambaire. Amber heard the snick of the lock as Whitey fastened it behind him. He heard all this from the upper landing, then when silence reigned again he descended. Noiselessly he opened the bedroom door, closing it again behind him. The communicating door was of the conventional matchwood variety, and there was no difficulty, though the two men spoke in low tones, in hearing what they said. Whitey was talking. “... it surprised me ... old man ... thought he was dead....” and he heard the rumble of Lambaire’s expression of astonishment. “... providential ... seeing him in the garden ... scared to death....” Amber crouched closer to the door. It took him some time before he trained his ear to catch every word, and luckily during that time they talked of things which were of no urgent importance. “And now,” said Whitey’s voice, “we’ve got to get busy.” “Coals is in no danger?” asked Lambaire. “No--little wound in the leg ... that swine Amber....” Amber grinned in the darkness. “Here is the prospectus they were drawing up.”