He found that it rested firmly on each end, and he then worked his hands still farther out, gradually letting himself down until he lay flat upon it, with his feet on the garage roof and his head within eight inches of the house window, his eyes directly in line with the lower edge of the slightly raised curtain.
The beam of light from within fell full on his face. It looked unusually pale, but never more set and determined.
Patsy had reasoned that it might be more difficult to return than to get out there on his narrow support. But he had resolved to cross that bridge when he came to it.
It was enough for him, just then, that he had accomplished his immediate object. He now could see plainly into the room and also hear the voices of its occupants.
He took them in visually with a single swift glance—five persons.
One was a brawny Irishman in his shirt sleeves. He was seated near the stove and smoking a clay pipe.
Another was a corpulent, red-faced woman, whose garments denoted that she was the mistress of the house, as the other appeared to be its master.
“Hogan and his wife,” thought Patsy. “I’ve seen him driving a taxi, too, and his wife most likely runs the little store.”
Patsy afterward learned that he was right.
A third person was Annette Levine, divested of her outside garments.