Up and up he went, step by step, trying each one, to be sure it did not creak, before he trusted his weight on it. Now and then he would stop, and peer on all sides of him. Then he would listen to catch the faintest sound. But there was no noise. Not even the step of the policeman on the beat disturbed him. From afar came the hum of the big city, the roar of cars and elevated trains, the throb of traffic in the metropolis that never goes to sleep, but in the neighborhood of the tenement house all was quietness.
All at once the man on the steps began to sniff the air, like an animal scenting danger from afar.
“He’s started the fire! I can smell the kerosene oil!” he said, softly. “Now for the final scene!”
Carefully he walked along until he came to the door that led into the kitchen of the Dexter apartments. From his pocket he drew forth a small instrument similar to that which the other man had used. He placed the sharp edge between the door and the jamb, close to the lock. He pried on it. There was a slight crack, and the door had been opened with a burglar’s jimmy.
An instant later there broke out on the night air that most dreaded of all alarms in the midst of the crowded population of New York’s poor:
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”
That was the cry that smote on the ears of those who were suddenly awakened from their slumbers.
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”
How it echoed down into the yard! How it sounded into the sleeping rooms! How it penetrated down the street, and even farther to where the policeman was smoking a cigar before the roundsman came!
“Fire! Fire! Fire!”