They turned from the office and mounted another flight of stairs, darker and dirtier than the first. There was no carpet on the bare floor of the corridor above, where a weakly flaring gas jet made a sickly break in the gloom. There was a peculiar smell about the place that was distinctly offensive. The door of a room stood open. Inside two filthy-looking men, minus their coats, were arguing loudly and drunkenly about "labor and capital," while a third man lay sleeping on a dirty bed.
A man shuffled along the dark corridor and stared at Frank and Dick with suspicious, resentful eyes. He was low-browed, sullen, and vicious in appearance; just such a man as one would not care to meet alone on a dark street late at night.
From another room came the sound of maudlin singing, and in still another a man was swearing horribly.
Merry grasped Dick's arm.
"Haven't you made a mistake?" he asked.
"A mistake? Why——"
"Dade Morgan can't be stopping in a place like this."
"I know it doesn't seem possible," said Dick. "But he is here—at least, he was last night."
They came to a door, which Dick unhesitatingly pushed open.
A sickly gas jet was burning within the room. Stretched across a wretched bed lay a dark, silent figure.