Those master fingers of Jimmie Dale were working surely, swiftly, silently.

A little steel instrument that was never out of his possession was in the lock and out again.

The door opened, closed; he drew the black silk mask from his pocket and slipped it over his face.

Immediately in front of him the stairs led upward; immediately to his right was the door into the shop--the modest street entrance was common to both.
The door into the workshop was not locked.

He opened it, stepped inside, and closed it quietly behind him.