“Fire ahead,” said Sampson, with one of his mirthless grins. But he was sitting comfortably in a steam-heated office.
It was nine o’clock when we boarded the steam cars at the old Central Avenue terminal. McCluskey was a solid-jawed, sensible, self-reliant looking chap. It puzzled me. A sober, steady man like that must have seen something very convincing before sponsoring talk of ghosts.
“Ghost hunting?” he asked.
“Yes,” replied Lanagan. “Good feature story, this ghost stuff. Keep it quiet for a day or two longer, will you?”
“Sure. I’ll be on the watch for the Enquirer to see about it. Looked for it to-night, but didn’t see it.”
He slowed down for us about an eighth of a mile from the Thirty-third Avenue stop and we dropped off into a bitter rain.
That rain would have quenched the tail fires of hell.
We struggled on, heads down. There was no use in trying to talk and I knew Lanagan would take his own time about giving me any information. We suddenly pulled stiffly up against two bulky, raincoated figures. A dark lantern flashed, first in my face, then in Lanagan’s.
“Well, well!” It was Lanagan’s ready voice, pitched a trifle high on account of the beating rain. “If it isn’t Messrs. Phillips and Castle! Walking to reduce weight, I presume?”
“What are you fellows doing out here?” asked Phillips, gruffly.