He wanted to see the sort of establishment which Phillopolis maintained. They chatted together till they came to the street, and then Phillopolis stopped.
"Do you mind if I go ahead?" he said. "I have a—friend there who might be worried by your coming."
Pinto smiled to himself.
"Certainly," he said. "I'll wait on the opposite side of the road until you are ready."
The man lived above a big furniture shop, and admission was gained by a side door. Pinto watched him pass through the portals and heard the door close. He was a long time gone, and evidently his "friend" was unprepared to receive visitors at that hour, or else Phillopolis himself had some reason for postponing the invitation.
The reason for the delay was explained in a sensational manner. Suddenly the door opened and a man came out. He was followed by two others and between them was Phillopolis, and the street-lamp shone upon the steel handcuffs on his wrists. Pinto drew back into a doorway and watched. Phillopolis was talking—it would perhaps be more accurate to say that he was raving at the top of his voice, cursing and sobbing in a frenzy.
"You planted them—it is a plant!" he yelled. "You devils!"
"Are you coming quietly?" said a voice. "Or are you going to make trouble? Take him, Dempsey!"
Phillopolis seemed to have forgotten Pinto's presence, for he went out of the street without once calling upon him to testify to his character and innocence. Pinto waited till he was gone, and then strolled across the road to the detective who stood before the door lighting his pipe.
"Good evening," he said, "has there been some trouble?"