“Here,” and Webster handed him a dozen or more long cartridges.
Two revolvers were loaded and shoved deep into overcoat pockets; then the two descended to the street, got into a cab and were driven to Selden’s Square.
“Not a very live street, for so early an hour,” remarked Webster, as they alighted at the corner and walked slowly along.
“I noticed that last night,” returned Kenyon, somewhat grimly. “The thugs who attacked the man outside of 98 did not seem to have any fear of interruption.”
“By the way, you did not see anything of the attacked one when you came out, did you!”
“No; those who committed the assault either carried him away, or the police found him before I came out.”
They had reached 98 by this time and halted. It was gloomy and deserted looking; not a glimmer of light was to be seen at any of the windows. They ascended the steps and Kenyon pulled the old-fashioned bell-handle.
“Speaking of policemen,” remarked Webster, in a low tone, “that looks like one across the way.”
The gleam of the helmet plate and shield were unmistakable; but their owner made no move toward them, though he seemed to be watching them narrowly. Just then there came a sound at the basement door and a shuffling of feet up the steps. In a moment a sharp, wrinkled old face appeared above the rail and a quavering, high-pitched voice demanded:
“What is it, please? What is it?”