It was a misty, humid, disagreeable night, with the unseasonable January warm spell hanging on, making winter garments almost unbearable, though ordinary discretion precluded removing them.
Patsy Garvan found it damp and uncomfortable while watching the Ringold residence from a concealment in the adjoining grounds. He was glad when the early dusk of the afternoon deepened into darkness, enabling him to steal out and move around without incurring detection, thus relieving the monotony of his persistent vigil.
It was eight o’clock when his patience was finally rewarded. He had seen the Ringolds at dinner, had watched them through the lace-draped windows of the house, and had seen Nan Levine serving at the table, then clearing it, and supping with another servant in the kitchen. Nothing in her looks or actions, however, denoted that she was in haste, or had any intention of going out that evening.
Patsy was agreeably disappointed, therefore, when he saw her leaving the house. She emerged from the side door, with a dark cloak enveloping her slender figure, while her head and face were covered with a veil. She tripped out to the street, where she paused to glance sharply around for a moment, and then she hurried away.
“Gee whiz! she is breaking cover, all right,” thought Patsy, at once elated. “She’s off on a definite mission, too, and that looks more like business. There’s no mistaking her, for all she’s so bundled up and closely veiled. That points to something doing, for fair. It’s ten to one, now, that Chick sized her up correctly.”
Stealing out, Patsy followed the girl with no great difficulty. He knew that his disguise would preclude recognition, even if she had seen him the previous night, as Nick had apprehended. It soon became obvious to Patsy, however, that she did not feel that she had incurred suspicion, or had any thought of being followed.
Patsy shadowed her over to New York, where she took the Third Avenue elevated. Leaving it a little later, she finally brought up at an inferior wooden house in a low street on the East Side. She darted up the inclosed steps and rang the bell three times, and she was admitted so quickly that Patsy was unable to see who answered the summons.
“She’s under cover again, all right, but this looks still more like business,” he said to himself. “But how am I to get next? That’s the question.”
Patsy had paused on the opposite side of the street and was sizing up the house and its surroundings. The ground floor was used for a small store. Over the door was a sign bearing the single word—Hogan.
“It looks like a measly little grocery store,” muttered Patsy. “But why is it closed so early? Other shops around here are open. Hogan must have other business on for to-night, something doing in which that girl figures. Gee, I must contrive in some way to turn the trick.”