Will glanced in at the narrow aperture of the window. There was less than an inch of space left by the curtain. But this enabled him to catch a glimpse of a table, on which burnt a lamp, and to see the faces of the four men seated around it.
Black-eyed Joe stood back. He had just brought up some liquors.
Will could scarcely repress a chuckle of triumph. The face of the man whom he had last seen outside was now fully displayed. There was no doubt now, he knew him at a glance.
The face of a second looked familiar to him. The other two were strangers. His companion, however, seemed to know them.
“Them’s gay nobs. High-toned cracksmen,” he whispered. “I know just where to put my finger on them.”
The men were still conversing, but in low tones, and only an occasional phrase reached the eager young ears at the window.
“Not safe now,” was the first phrase caught.
“John Elkton is in prison. He won’t blow.”
“The West is the best field. After this scent gets cold.”
The voices now sunk lower, so that the spies heard nothing for some time.