“Hold on,” said Porter. “There's a gang of 'em there. I see a dozen of 'em, and if we're the ones they're after we had better cut for it.”
“I believe you are right,” said I, peering into the darkness. I could see a confused mass, but whether of men or boxes I could only guess.
“We'll go up here, and you can cut around the other way,” said Porter. “There's no need for you to risk it.”
“There's no need for any one to risk it. We'll cut together.”
“This way then,” said Wilson. “I know this part of town better than you do. Run on your toes.” And he darted past Borton's, and plunged into an alley that led toward the north. Porter and I followed, as quietly as possible, through the dark and noisome cut-off to Pacific Street. Wilson turned toward the bay, and crossing the street at the next corner followed the main thoroughfare to Broadway.
“I guess we're all right now,” he gasped, as we turned again to the west, “but we'd best keep to the middle of the street.”
And a little later we were in sight of the house of mystery which fronted, forbidding and gloomy as ever, on Montgomery Street.
“Where's Barkhouse?” I asked of Trent, who was on guard.
“He hasn't come in, sir. Phillips got here a bit ago, and I think he has something to report.”
As Phillips had been sent scouting with Barkhouse I thought it likely, and called him to my room.