Did I describe the peculiar isolation of that room on the top floor,
where the portrait was? I don't think I did. It was, as a matter of
fact, the only room in those parts, for, in the days when he did his
amateur painting, old Harold was strong on the artistic seclusion
business and hated noise, and his studio was the only room in use on
that floor.
In short, to sum up, the thing was a cinch.
Punctually at ten minutes to seven, I was in readiness on the scene.
There was a recess with a curtain in front of it a few yards from the
door, and there I waited, fondling my little wedge, for Harold to walk
up and allow the proceedings to start. It was almost pitch-dark, and
that made the time of waiting seem longer. Presently--I seemed to have
been there longer than ten minutes--I heard steps approaching. They
came past where I stood, and went on into the room. The door closed,
and I hopped out and sprinted up to it, and the next moment I had the
good old wedge under the wood--as neat a job as you could imagine. And
then I strolled downstairs, and toddled off to the inn.
I didn't hurry over my dinner, partly because the browsing and sluicing
at the inn was really astonishingly good for a roadhouse and partly
because I wanted to give Harold plenty of time for meditation.
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