"All right, sir."
When Sprague reached police headquarters, he found the reporter ready to start with four detectives. He had not, therefore, any opportunity for conversation with his friend until the party reached its destination. There two of the detectives relieved the men previously on duty, while the others accompanied Sturgis and Sprague to the office of the Manhattan Chemical Company.
It was after six o'clock. The place was closed for the night and seemed quite deserted. One of the men rang the bell. The tinkling echoes died away, but no sign of life manifested itself from within. Then he seized the pull and plied it again repeatedly and vigorously.
"That will do," observed Sturgis presently; "the old woman is coming as fast as she can."
"What old woman?" asked the detective.
"I don't know. Perhaps I ought to have said an old woman. I hear her hobbling on the stairs."
The detective placed his ear to the keyhole. After listening attentively, he turned to the reporter with an incredulous smile.
"Well, Mr. Sturgis," said he, "if you can hear anything in there, your ears are sharper than mine. That's all I can say."
"She is on the second flight," replied the reporter quietly. "Now she is in the second-story hall,—and now you can surely hear her coming down the last flight."
By this time, sure enough, the sound of footsteps began to be audible to the other three men; and presently the door opened and disclosed the scared face of an old Irish woman.