"That'll be Mr. Skeel's abode," observed Heath.
He walked up to it and, dropping one hand in his right coat-pocket, turned the knob. But the door was locked. He then knocked violently upon it, and placing his ear to the jamb, listened. Snitkin stood directly behind him, his hand also in his pocket. The rest of us remained a little in the rear.
Heath had knocked a second time when Vance's voice spoke up from the semidarkness.
"I say, Sergeant, you're wasting time with all that formality."
"I guess you're right," came the answer after a moment of what seemed unbearable silence.
Heath bent down and looked at the lock. Then he took some instrument from his pocket and inserted it into the keyhole.
"You're right," he repeated. "The key's gone."
He stepped back and, balancing on his toes like a sprinter, sent his shoulders crashing against the panel directly over the knob. But the lock held.
"Come on, Snitkin," he ordered.
The two detectives hurled themselves against the door. At the third onslaught there was a splintering of wood and a tearing of the lock's bolt through the moulding. The door swung drunkenly inward.
The room was in almost complete darkness. We all hesitated on the threshold, while Snitkin crossed warily to one of the windows and sent the shade clattering up. The yellow-gray light filtered in, and the objects of the room at once took definable form. A large, old-fashioned bed projected from the wall on the right.
"Look!" cried Snitkin, pointing; and something in his voice sent a shiver over me.
