CHAPTER XXXVII.
OUT OF A SPIDER’S WEB.
A bundle of rags huddled in the doorway of one of the shaky old houses took unto itself life and height. In a gargoyle face snaky eyes balefully glistened at the sight of prey. The boys, who in a moment of indecision had stopped within earshot of this hideous, hidden thing, were about to resume their way through this wretched street, in the scant hope of finding some clew to their whereabouts under the feeble glow from the dimly distant lamp-post.
If there had ever been any gendarmes bold enough to regularly patrol this gruesome thoroughfare, these heroes were certainly not in evidence now. They must either have gone directly to war or were on guard in some more prosperous locality.
In fact, this dilapidated neighborhood appeared to be generally deserted, for even of prowlers not a one up to the minute had given a sign of open movement in the long square.
There had been a lamplighter at the crossing, however, and that was something on which to hang a belief that there might be more of his kind further on.
“Say, Henri, I don’t believe graveyards were mentioned in the directions Gilbert gave you.”
“This is no joke, Jimmy, and you would never have seen the like in Paris if it wasn’t for the war. To save my life, though, I can’t imagine where all the people that belong here could have gone.”
“There are some that we might not care to meet after dark,” suggested Billy.
As they talked the boys were groping their way over the rough cobbles toward the one promise—meaning the lamp-post.