"100th Street," the man answered.
Peter shook his head.
"I'm a little superstitious about that number," he declared. "Is that an elevated railway there? I think we've had enough, Sogrange."
Sogrange hesitated. They were standing now in front of a tall, gloomy house, unkempt, with broken gate—a large but miserable-looking abode. The passers-by in the street were few. The whole character of the surroundings was squalid. The man pushed open the broken gate.
"You cross the road right there to the elevated," he directed. "If you ain't coming, I'll bid you good-night."
Once more they hesitated. Peter, perhaps, saw more than his companion. He saw the dark shapes lurking under the railway arch. He knew instinctively that they were in some sort of danger. And yet the love of adventure was on fire in his blood. His belief in himself was immense. He whispered to Sogrange.
"I do not trust our guide," he said. "If you care to risk it, I am with you."
"Mind the broken pavement," the man called out. "This ain't exactly an abode of luxury."
They climbed some broken steps. Their guide opened a door with a Yale key. The door swung to after them and they found themselves in darkness. There had been no light in the windows. There was no light, apparently, in the house. Their companion produced an electric torch from his pocket.
"You had best follow me," he advised. "Our quarters face out the other way. We keep this end looking a little deserted."