Explore "Hard Pressed" by Fred M. White on Textopian. Read with annotations and highlights.
To Fielden, waiting, it seemed that Phillips was a long time away. While he stood looking over the banisters he learned that the fire had been made up downstairs. With grim amusement he watched Foster open the hamper and take from it certain delicacies which formed the foundation of what promised to be an exceedingly good supper. There were sundry bottles, too, with gold foil about the necks, and when the hamper had been emptied Foster repaired to the kitchen and presently reappeared with a tray laden with plates and dishes, the requisite number of glasses and knives and forks, and a tablecloth. Judging from the smell, Copley was smoking in the dining-room whilst his accomplice was preparing the supper. Matters had progressed thus far when Phillips stole gently back, carrying a long very thin slip of wood from a broken board, the end of which he had whittled to a fine point.
"I've found it," he said. "If I lean over the banisters I can jam the point of this stick into the eye of the burner, and put out the gas. They won't be able to light it again for a while. Is it safe?"