He turned back to his work, with a reckless little up-thrust of each resolute shoulder.

His searching fingers found the old-fashioned window lever, of hammered brass, and on this he pressed down and back, quietly.

A moment later the sash swung slowly out, and he was inside the room, closing the shutters and then the window after him.
He stood there, in the dark quietness, for what must have been a full minute.

Then he took from his pocket a box of wax matches.

He had purchased them for the purpose, from the frugal old woman who month by month and season by season carried on her quiet trade at the foot of the Casino steps, catching, as it were, the tiny drippings from the flaring tapers in that Temple of Gold.