The talk in the kitchen led up to Nan Levine’s mission there, of which Baldy Gammon was ignorant. The moment he learned of the morning caller at the Ringold residence, however, he seemed to be inspired with suspicions that had entirely escaped Stuart Floyd, or been utterly ignored.
“’Ang it, girl, you may ’ave been followed ’ere!” he exclaimed, starting to his feet. “’Ow do you know you wasn’t? What’s out back ’ere? Let’s ’ave a look?”
“Oh, there’s nothing there,” growled Hogan, laying down his pipe.
“’Ow do you know? Let’s make sure of it, all the same. I’ll see for my blooming self.”
This sudden turn of affairs fell, of course, with alarming possibilities on the mind of Patsy Garvan, particularly when he saw the scowling ruffian striding toward the window on the sill of which the plank was resting.
“Gee! this is a case of sneak—if sneaking is possible,” he muttered, in rising excitement. “It’s a quick get-away for mine.”
Patsy had begun to wriggle back on the board with his first thought. His muscles were stiff and cramped, however, and he could not move quickly, nor steadily.
Twice he felt the board slip treacherously on the stone sill of the window.
Then the curtain was raised high from within.
Baldy Gammon appeared at the window.