Larkin, here, was certainly no menace. Neither was Clinton Glendenning, for that matter.
He stifled a contemptuous laugh. How ridiculous! Here, in a house inhabited only by an old man, a pasty-faced weakling, and a girl, Don Hasbrouck was worried! He looked at Larkin as he donned his coat. The secretary bowed a silent good night.
Hasbrouck, standing by the velvet curtain, watched the young man go upstairs. He was left alone, to leave the house at his leisure. It was another sign of the abruptness that all the occupants of this residence displayed.
He sensed that Larkin wanted to avoid any chance for an interview. Hasbrouck shrugged. He could not blame the secretary. The fellow had to do old Glendenning’s bidding. He could take no chances with his job.
AS Larkin’s footsteps echoed at the top of the stairway, Hasbrouck pulled a card from his pocket and glanced at a written address which told his next destination; the place where he would find Jerry Middleton.
He put the card back in his pocket, and once more glanced up the stairs. His hat was in his right hand; the fingers of his left sought the knob of the vestibule door. His back grazed the nearer of the two velvet curtains.
Something brushed over Don Hasbrouck’s shoulder. It felt like a wirelike cord, moving swiftly sidewise. The invisible object had fallen over his head. It was moving slowly upward, toward his collar.
It might have been the imperceptible touch of this cord; it might have been a sudden thought that had flashed through Hasbrouck’s brain — at any rate, the detective shuddered.
He held his breath and stood still as he sensed a motion behind him. Then he slowly drew his left hand from the doorknob and pressed it against the curtain.
His fingers encountered a solid object through the velvet! Hasbrouck started to move forward. He stopped abruptly.