Thrusting his notebook in his pocket, the young man alighted and stood upon the sidewalk while the cab rolled away.
It was a somber neighborhood. The night was gloomy with overcasting clouds, and in this obscure part of Manhattan, the old buildings seemed like tombs. The number of this old house reflected by the light behind the transom, showed dimly above the door.
Louis Steffan had reached the home of Clark Murdock.
Steffan glanced up and down the street before he went toward the steps. He saw a car parked half a block away. Its lights were off and he gave it no second thought. Impulsively, he turned to approach the steps. As he did, he sensed a man beside him.
An exclamation froze on Steffan's lips. The stranger who had closed upon him was a short, stocky man; and in his hand was the glimmer of steel. The muzzle of a revolver pressed against Louis Steffan's ribs.
"Move along," came a harsh, cold voice. "One peep out of you and you get the works. Savvy?" Trembling, Louis Steffan allowed himself to be forced along the street — away from the house he had sought — away from the one place that offered safety. The parked car was moving slowly toward him. Shivering, with the pressure of the gun against his back, the young man faltered forward at his captor's bidding.
The low-lying car met them, twenty yards from the house. It was a sedan and the rear door opened as the automobile arrived beside Steffan and the man who guarded him.
Within the sedan, Louis Steffan saw the vague form of another enemy. There, as before, he caught the glimmer of a revolver.
A nudge from his captor and Steffan stepped into the car. He huddled back upon the cushions, his hands raised piteously as his frightened, staring eyes saw the second revolver covering him.
"Get going," said the man on the curb.