He reckoned 24’s gate was certain to be bolted and he could not afford to make any noise trying to open it. Someone had considerately thrown out an old slatted box into the lane from 22, however. Max stood gingerly on it and peered over the wall into the yard of 24. There were lamps on in the rear windows of the house, upstairs as well as down. The curtains were closed, but enough light escaped into the yard to show Max the lie of the land. To his right, on the other side of the gate, was the privy. Below him, its upper leaves brushing against him, was a bay hedge. And straight ahead, standing by the wash-house door, was a man smoking a cigarette, its end glowing at intervals as he drew on it. There was no way Max could scale the wall without the man seeing or hearing him. If he raised the alarm the game would be up. Max stood where he was, wondering what he should do next. The decision was made for him. The man finished his cigarette, tossed it away and started across the yard towards the privy.
