THE side entrance of the old house loomed black as Harry Vincent stood before it. There was a dim light upstairs — in the back room on the second floor. Otherwise the house seemed uninhabited.
Harry tried the door. It was locked. The young man pulled some keys from his pocket.
Picking locks was not one of Harry’s natural accomplishments. But he had learned important secrets of that art during his period of service with The Shadow.
Harry risked the glow of his flashlight, and smiled as he saw that the lock was a simple one. He tried a master key. The lock turned.
Within the house, Harry was more free with his light. He saw a stairway, leading from the front. He followed it to the second floor. In another minute he stood listening outside Middleton’s door.
The heavy breathing of a man was audible. The door was locked. Harry tried his key, and found that there was a key on the other side. The clicking of metal apparently caused no alarm.
Harry still heard Middleton’s breathing. He was sure that the man was asleep.
Prying with the master key, Harry was quickly rewarded. A dull plop from the other side of the door showed that the inner key had been forced from the lock, and had fallen on a carpeted floor.
Harry opened the door and entered. By a rear, shaded window, a young man reclined in an armchair. There was only one light in the room.
Harry approached and put his arm on the young man’s shoulder. The sleeper’s eyes opened. A startled gasp burst from his lips. Then his head dropped back. He appeared exhausted.