His position was perfectly natural--a hundred passers-by would have noted nothing but a most commonplace occurrence--a man in the act of entering a store.

And, if he appeared to fumble and have trouble with the latch, what of it! Jimmie Dale, however, was not fumbling--hidden by his back that was turned to the street, those wonderful fingers of his, in whose tips seemed embodied and concentrated every one of the human senses, were working quickly, surely, accurately, without so much as the wasted movement of a single muscle.
A faint tinkle--and the key within fell from the lock to the floor.

A faint click--and the bolt of the lock slipped back.

Jimmie Dale restored the skeleton keys and a little steel instrument that accompanied them to his pocket--and quietly opened the door.

He stepped inside, picked up the key from the floor, inserted it in the lock, closed the door behind him, and locked it again.
"To guard against interruption," observed Jimmie Dale, a little quizzically.
He was, perhaps, thirty seconds behind the others.