Harry Vincent descended to the street and went back to the Metrolite Hotel. After dinner, he set out for Clinton Glendenning’s home.
Harry sensed no danger as he rode northward in the taxi. On the contrary, he felt that he was bound on a very tame mission. It was one that might require shrewdness; that was all.
Because his errand was a secret one, Harry discharged the cab near the address to which he was going and walked the remaining distance.
The street on which the dismal Glendenning house stood was quiet and deserted. Tonight it was undisturbed by the storm which had marked Don Hasbrouck’s visit. Nevertheless, Harry, like the detective, felt tense as he climbed the steps to the door of the house.
All about was shadowy blackness. Harry could not shake off the feeling that some one lurked in the darkness, watching him. But, as he remained in front of the door, the sensation diminished. Harry pressed the bell and heard the lonely, gonglike note.
The door opened. Harry’s path was blocked by a young man who stood in the dim vestibule.
“I would like to see Mr. Glendenning,” said Harry.
“I’m sorry, sir,” was the reply. “I cannot disturb him. You should have called to make an appointment.”
Harry edged his way into the vestibule.
“My name is Harry Vincent,” he declared. “It is urgent that I see Mr. Glendenning. I will not require much of his time.”