Henri, however, had come to the conclusion that the pigeon story was not popular here, considering its effect on the man who had first met them at the door. So he wore a thinking cap on the way to the "parlor."
This apartment was the only one that had a living look, all the others, noted in the passing, cheerless and empty. It was a "sky parlor," being reached by narrow stairway, only a garret between it and the roof.
An old table, rickety chairs, portable cots and a rusty oil stove were in evidence. There was a wide fireplace with no fire in it. It occurred to Henri that the present occupants of the house did not approve of smoking chimneys.
To get a line on what might be expected, he mildly inquired, with a pale smile:
"Now that we are here, for what are we here?"
He was certain that he himself could not win a prize with the correct answer.
The cold-eyed man could not restrain a short laugh in his throat.
"You are the fellow on the witness stand," he said, "but we must wait for the prosecuting attorney to help us along."
In the waiting time the boys could hear through an open trap-door above them the fluttering and cooing of a score or more slate-colored doves, and it had just dawned upon Billy that there was some particular use for the sheets of oiled tissue and skeins of pack-thread that littered the table.