Light glowed from a window in the side of the house. "Somebody's up!" Morrow observed softly.
"Do we go 'round and ring the front doorbell?" Smitty wondered. "Or do we just walk in?"
Morrow shrugged. "It won't make much difference. Let's try the back door—if it's locked, well go around."
They reached the door and he tested its knob, careful not to make any noise. It yielded readily.
They entered.
The faint light filtering down the short hallway was enough to guide them across the dark kitchen. Then they had to pass the dark doorways of what were probably two bedrooms, on either side of the hall. They reached the lighted doorway near the front, and stood looking into the living room.
Robert Foster was seated in a comfortable chair next to the television set. A single reading lamp was burning—the pipe clutched in Foster's teeth was out—and he seemed deeply engrossed in a good book.
Morrow reached up and snapped the fasteners on his helmet.
Foster lifted his gaze with the utmost casualness and studied the two figures in the doorway. He looked quite happy and contented, dressed in an old pair of slacks and loafers and a turtle-neck sweater. His dark, touselled hair showed evidence of his hand running through it—a habitual gesture of his, Morrow remembered.
Slowly, a stunned expression crept across his face.