O'Malley studied the bureau closely, ran the light of his torch back and forth across it, shook out the veil, sniffed it, and put it and the two hairpins carefully into his wallet. Then with the book and the paper in his hand he straightened up, turned to George, and said:
"That about cleans it up. There's nothing for it now but to go back."
The janitor, anxiously watchful, followed on their heels as they went down the stairs. Their clattering descent was followed by the strains of the guitar, thinly debonair and mocking as if exulting over their discomfiture. In the street the same shape emerged from the shadows and slouched toward them. A grunted phrase from O'Malley sent it drifting away, spiritless and without response, like a lonely ghost come in timid expectation and repelled by a rebuff.
O'Malley dropped into a corner of the taxi and as it glided off, said:
"That's the last of 76 Gayle Street as far as they're concerned."
"Why do you say that?"
In the darkness the detective permitted himself a sidelong glance of scorn.
"You don't leave the door unlocked in that sort of place unless you're done with it. They've got all they wanted out of it and quit."
"Abandoned it?"
"That's right—made a neat, quiet get-away. They didn't say they were going, didn't give up the key—it was on the inside of the door. Just slid out and vanished."