Whitey Mack was known to be clever with a lock--clever enough for that, anyhow.
He slipped in the key, turned it, and, on hinges that were always oiled, silently pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold.

He closed the door until it was just ajar, that any sound might reach him from without--and, whipping off his coat, began to undress swiftly.
There was no light.

He dared not use the gas; it might be seen from the alleyway.

He was moving now quickly, surely, silently here and there.
It was like some weird spectre figure, a little blacker than the surrounding darkness, flitting about the room.

The oilcloth in the corner was turned back, the loose flooring lifted, the clothes of Jimmie Dale taken out, the rags of Larry the Bat put in.