The room was comfortable, although plainly furnished. It was exceedingly neat. That was due to the attention of the housekeeper who came to the place every afternoon, for Harkness never troubled himself with keeping the place in order.
He, himself, was the one contrast in the room. Sprawled in an easy-chair, attired in a dressing gown, with his gray-tinged hair an uncombed mop, Richard Harkness seemed the personification of carelessness.
Despite his intense reading of the book before him, Harkness became suddenly alert at the sound of a slight noise that came from outside his room. He listened.
A puzzled expression came over his sharp features. He closed the book and walked across the room. He flung open the door and stared down the dark steps to the second floor.
Hearing no repetition of the sound, he closed the door and strode back to the center of the room, turning the leaves of the book to find the page that he had been reading.
Again, that slight sound. Harkness turned. The door was open. He thought, for an instant, that he had seen something move in the darkness.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
There was on reply. Harkness strode toward the door.
Suddenly he was confronted by a man who stepped from the stairway, holding a leveled automatic. The man was short. He wore a black overcoat and a cap pulled down over his eyes.
Beneath the cap, covering the man’s chin, was a dark, folded handkerchief.