In the saloons the disreputability was cheerful, and cheerfully acknowledged with lights and noise, here of a broken piano, there of a wheezy accordion, and, beyond, of a half-drunken man singing or shouting a ribald song. Elsewhere it was sullen and dark,—the lights, where there were lights, glittering through chinks, or showing the outlines of drawn curtains.
“This isn't just the place I'd choose for entertaining friends,” said Henry, with a visible relief from his uneasiness, as we climbed the worn and dirty stair.
“Oh, that's all right,” I said, magnanimously accepting his apology.
“It doesn't have all the modern conveniences,” admitted Henry as we stumbled up the second flight, “but it's suitable to the business we have in hand, and—”
“What's that?” I exclaimed, as a creaking, rasping sound came from the hall below.
We stopped and listened, peering into the obscurity beneath.
Nothing but silence. The house might have been a tomb for any sign of life that showed within it.
“It must have been outside,” said Henry. “I thought for a moment perhaps—” Then he checked himself. “Well, you'll know later,” he concluded, and opened the door of the last room on the right of the hall.
As we entered, he held the door ajar for a full minute, listening intently. The obscurity of the hall gave back nothing to eye or ear, and at last he closed the door softly and touched a match to the gas.
The room was at the rear corner of the building. There were two windows, one looking to the west, the other to the north and opening on the narrow alley.