They had alighted at the corner of Varmolet street and now started to look for No. 234. They had to walk two blocks, past houses that were disreputable in the extreme.
“I don’t like the look of this neighborhood,” remarked Sam, as they hurried along. “I’d hate to visit it after dark.”
“Think of what Mrs. Stanhope must be suffering, if they brought her to such a spot,” returned Dick, and could not help shuddering.
Presently they reached No. 234, an old three-storied house, with a dingy front porch, and with solid wooden shutters, the majority of which were tightly closed. Not a soul was in sight around the place.
“Don’t ring any bell,” warned Sam. “If those rascals are here they may take the alarm and skip out.”
“There isn’t any bell to ring,” answered Tom, grimly. “There was once an old-fashioned knocker, but it has been broken off.”
“I think one of us ought to try to get around to the back,” said Dick. “If those rascals are here they may try to escape that way.”
“That is true,” returned Tom. “But let us make sure first that we have the right place. The folks living here may be all-right people, and they’d think it strange to see us spying around.”
Dick looked up and down the street and saw a girl eight or nine years old sitting on a porch some distance away, minding a baby.
“Will you tell me who lives in that house?” he asked, of the girl.