It was a spoke of a wheel lying in the gutter—a tough piece of ash as effective in a strong hand as a policeman’s nightstick. Ralph weighted it, spat on his palm to tighten his grip on the club, and then ventured into the dark alley.
He had not gone ten steps when he heard the creak of hinges. A door was being opened somewhere ahead of him. But he came to a sharp corner in the dark alleyway before he spied the opening. A faint radiance shone into the lane.
Between him and this open door was a dark figure—a stooping figure. He made sure it was Zeph. He heard the latter “hist!” in a low tone. He crept forward.
Somebody stumbled inside the hall to which the open door gave entrance. A harsh voice called:
“That you?”
“Yes, it’s me,” grumbled another voice, which Ralph recognized as belonging to Malone.
“What are you trying to do—knock the house down?” snarled the first speaker.
“Why don’t you have some more light? ’Most broke my shins down here. Ouch!”
“Shut up!” commanded the other person, evidently standing at the head of a flight of stairs. “Come up here.”
Zeph had crept forward. Ralph saw the outlines of his figure at the edge of the doorframe. Ralph had to take his tip from Zeph.