Always your
“Frankie.
“P.S. Minnie is at my aunt Mrs. Lounsbury’s, 226 Lenover Street, Brooklyn. You might go to see her and see if you can persuade her to come home. I don’t think it will do the least good, but it won’t do any harm to try.”
He went that very evening, used Frankie’s five dollars for a taxi, in order to make a good impression. It was a raw, wet night, fit for his desperate mood. He was determined to force the beastly, selfish sister to release his Frankie.
The taxi went across the bridge, over the mystical river, shrouded in fog, and turned into an avenue where trolleys crashed by and elevated trains thundered overhead, where fruit stalls did a brisk business with swarthy foreigners; a slum, he called it. He watched from the window in vain to find any place possible for an aunt of Frankie’s to inhabit. Then abruptly the driver swung round a corner, and left the unsavoury turmoil for a dark and quiet street, paved with cobblestones. A wind was blowing from the nearby river, bringing a dreary din of horns and whistles; there was no other sound, no traffic, no footsteps.
“No. 226,” said the driver. “Here you are!”
He got out, paid the fare with his last bill on earth, and climbed the steep flight of steps to the front door. There was an old-fashioned bell to be pulled; he heard it jangle inside. He waited in the wretched drizzle a long time, then rang again. The house was quite dark and the street too; the blurred lamps showed nothing but glistening cobblestones and pavement, and one stealthy cat slinking past. He shivered and sighed.
At last the door was opened and a head peered out cautiously.
“Well?” enquired a feminine voice.
“May I see Miss Defoe?” he asked. “It’s Mr. Naylor.”
“Come in!” said the voice.