She had always understood that the Starkweather mansion was in one of the oldest and most respectable parts of New York. But although this might be one of the older parts of the city, to Helen’s eyes it did not look respectable.
The street was full of children and grown people in odd costumes. And there was a babel of voices that certainly were not English.
They shot across another narrow street—then another. And then the cab stopped beside the curb near a corner gaslight.
“Surely this is not Madison?” demanded Helen, of the driver, as her door was opened.
“There’s the name, Miss,” said the man, pointing to the street light.
Helen looked. She really did see “MADISON” in blue letters on the sign.
“And is this the number?” she asked again, looking at the three-story, shabby house before which the cab had stopped.
“Yes, Miss. Don’t you see it on the fanlight?”
The dull light in the hall of the house was sufficient to reveal to her the number painted on the glass above the door. It was an old, old house, with grimy panes in the windows, and more dull lights behind the shades drawn down over them. But there really could be no mistake, Helen thought. The number over the door and the name on the lamp-post reassured her.
She stepped out of the cab, her bag in her hand.