Crang's eyebrows were raised in well-simulated perplexity.
“I don't quite get you, Mr. Peters,” he said politely.
“It's of no consequence.” Larmon's eyes were suddenly fastened on the window. From an already shabby street where cheap tenements hived a polyglot nationality, the taxi had swerved into an intersection that seemed more a lane than anything else, and that was still more shabby and uninviting. “This is a rather sordid neighborhood, isn't it?” he observed curiously.
“It's safe,” said Crang significantly.
The taxi stopped.
“We get out here, Mr. Peters,” Crang announced pleasantly, as Birdie opened the door. “It's a bit rough, I'll admit; but”—he shrugged his shoulders and smiled—“you'll have to blame Bruce, not me. Just follow me, Mr. Peters—it's down these steps.”
He began to descend the steps of a cellar entrance, which was unprepossessingly black, and which opened from the rear of a seedy looking building that abutted on the lane. He did not look behind him. Larmon had made sure that the letter was to be relied upon, hadn't he?—and it was John Bruce, not anybody else, that Larmon was trusting now. Certainly, it was much easier to lead Larmon as long as Larmon could be led; if Larmon hesitated about following, Birdie stood ready to pitch the other headlong down the steps—the same end would be attained in either case!
But Larmon still showed no suspicion of the good faith of one William Anderson. He was following without question. The daylight streaking down through the entrance afforded enough light to enable Crang, over his shoulder, to note that Larmon was always close behind him. At a door across the cellar Crang gave two raps, three times repeated, and as the door was opened, entered with Larmon beside him.
The man who had let them in—one of three, who had evidently been rolling dice at a table close to the entrance—closed the door behind them, and resumed his game.
“If you'll just wait here a minute, Mr. Peters,” Crang said breezily, “I'll find Bruce for you.”