The little brick house with its beautiful old doorway and wrought iron railings was the very epitome of respectability—they had left the swarming Italian quarter around the corner. With its shining brass knobs, neat window curtains and scrubbed steps one would have sworn that good, church-going people lived there—but you never can tell!
There was no wagon or van in the block that might have contained the police, but it was only a hundred feet or so to the corner. Evan had faith in the inspector. As a matter of fact, the van was about half a minute late in arriving; not a very long time, but long enough to make a fatal difference in modern tactics.
They heard steps approaching the door from within—still no sign of the police.
"Fumble for the envelope," Evan swiftly whispered. "It'll gain time."
The door was opened by a woman as respectable in appearance as her house, in short a hard-working, middle-aged American woman with an expression slightly embittered perhaps as a result of the influx of "dagoes" in her neighbourhood. She looked at them enquiringly. George Deaves fumbled assiduously in his inside breast pocket.
"What is it?" she asked sharply.
"I have something for the gentleman up-stairs," he muttered.
"Oh!" She waited five seconds more. "What's the matter?"
"I can't seem to find it."
Still no sign of the police. Evan was on tenterhooks. To create a diversion he asked: