They walked quietly along the left-hand pavement. The roof of the Unicorn, looking gigantic, cut across the night-blue sky. No one was abroad in Simon's Alley and the traffic of Piccadilly and Trafalgar Square sounded remote. They heard Big Ben strike eleven. In a little while they saw the figure of a man standing very still in the shadows. Alleyn waited until he had come up with him.

"Is that you, Thompson?" he said very quietly.

"Yes, sir. I'm sorry if I've gone wrong over this."

"Not altogether your fault, but it would have been better if you'd kept your relief with you. Sure Hickson went in here?"

"Yes, sir. I had to leave this gate unwatched while I got the constable to come round. It's a long way round, too, but it wasn't more than eight minutes. I hope Hickson's still inside."

"Stay here. Don't move unless you hear my whistle. Come on, Fox."

He put his foot on the gate handle and climbed up. For a moment his silhouette showed dark against the sky. Then he disappeared. Fox followed him. The yard was strewn with indistinguishable rubbish. They picked their way cautiously towards the wall in front of them, and turned a corner, where the yard narrowed into an alley-way behind a low building. Here they found the open window. Alleyn noticed the old and broken shutter and the hole in the pane that would allow access to the catch. With a mental shrug at the watchman's idea of a burglar-proof theatre, Alleyn put his hands on the sill, wriggled through, and waited for Fox, who soon stood beside him. They took off their shoes and stayed there in the dark, listening.