Where he was now, he could see the
fence that separated the front garden from the road, and he was not
more than ten or twelve feet from the front door on his left. As he
huddled down there, he could not repress a smile of amusement, even of
self-congratulation. However, he turned to the practical job of
squeezing the water out of his sleeves.
In thus congratulating himself, he was premature. His action had been
based on a miscalculation. He had heard only Neddy's last exclamation,
not the cautious whispers previously exchanged between him and Mike; he
thought that the man astride the window-sill himself had kicked something
and instinctively exclaimed, "What the devil's that?" He thought that the
sack was lowered from the window in order to be committed to the
temporary guardianship of the Sergeant, who was doubtless looking out for
it and, if he had his ears open, would hear its gentle thud. Perhaps the
man in the Tower was collecting a second instalment of booty; heavy as
the sack was, it did not contain all that he knew to be in Captain
Duggle's grave.
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