It so happened that the two men stopped directly at the mouth of the alley, within a few feet of Ben Mayberry, who could hear their guarded words, though he could not catch the first glimpse of their figures.
A whistled signal or two first made them certain of each other’s identity, and then the one who had crossed the bridge gave utterance to an oath, expressive of his anger, as he demanded:
“Where has he gone?”
“How should I know?” growled the other. “I waited where you told me to wait, and finding he didn’t come, I moved down to meet him, but he don’t show up.”
“’Sh! Not so loud. He can’t be far off.”
“I don’t know how that is, but he’s given us the slip. There’s an alley right here, and he has turned into that.”
“I don’t hear him.”
“Of course not. Because he’s standing still and listening to us.”
“Flash your bull’s-eye into the alley.”
When Ben Mayberry heard this order he trembled, as well he might, for he was so close to the scoundrels that the first rays of the lantern would reveal him to them. Indeed he dare not move, lest the noise, slight as it was, would bring them down on him.