“And now, there's another little job to be done. There's one of my men a prisoner down on Davis Street. I must get him out.”
“I'm with you, sor,” said Corson heartily. “I'm hopin' there's some heads to be cracked.”
I had not counted on the policeman's aid, but I was thankful to accept the honest offer. In the restaurant I found five of my men, and with this force I thought that I might safely attempt an assault on the Den.
The Den was a low, two-story building of brick, with a warehouse below, and the quarters of the enemy, approached by a narrow stairway, above.
“Step quietly,” I cautioned my men, as we neared the dark and forbidding entrance. “Keep close to the shadow of the buildings. Our best chance is in a surprise.”
There was no guard at the door that stood open to the street, and we halted a moment before it to make sure of our plans.
“It's a bad hole,” whispered Corson.
“A fine place for an ambush,” I returned dubiously.
“Well, there's no help for it,” said the policeman. “Come on!” And drawing his club and revolver he stole noiselessly up the stairs.
I felt my way up step by step, one hand against the wall and my shoes scraping cautiously for a resting-place, while my men followed in single file with the same silent care.