They were locked.
An indulgent smile crept to Jimmie Dale's lips--and his hand crept in under his vest.

It came out again--not empty--and Jimmie Dale leaned close against the window.

There was a faint, almost inaudible, scratching sound, then a slight, brittle crack--and Jimmie Dale laid a neat little four-inch square of glass on the ground at his feet.

Through the aperture he reached in his hand, turned the key that was in the lock, turned the bolt-rod handle, pushed the doors silently open--wide open--left them open--and stepped into the room.
He could see quite well within, thanks to the moonlight.

Jimmie Dale produced a black silk mask from one of the little leather pockets, adjusted it carefully over his face, and crossed the room to the hall door.