The next building was somewhat lower than The Flatiron, but beyond rose a new block that overtopped its surroundings.
“If I were in one of those rooms,” he mused, “I could tell quick enough.”
At the foot of the ladder he hesitated, ears alert; then he tiptoed to the door at the end of the passage, his bare feet noiseless as a cat’s.
Not a breath from within!
“Of course they couldn’t be there,” he argued disgustedly. Nevertheless he told Doodles that he was going down on the street, and when he reached the sidewalk he sauntered towards the Empire Building. At the entrance he accosted a boy with the New York papers.
“Say, Tom, let me have a couple of those to sell!”
“What for?”
“For fun.” Blue drew forth the proper number of coins.
With the papers under his arm he went boldly up the stairs. On the fifth floor several doors stood invitingly open. He chose an office where a man sat writing near a farther window. As soon as he was well in the room, however, he was arrested by a bluff “No!” and he walked meekly away.
Three times his efforts were baffled; but the fourth attempt found him not only making a sale but put in possession of a fact that whirled his brain—the small roof window in the three-cornered room at the top of The Flatiron was atilt!