At one time this part of Jersey City was a favorite residence quarter for families who sought to be exclusive, and, therefore, fashionable. But the street has fallen from its high estate, as so many like it have done in New York.
The house in which Chick was interested had a sign on the doorpost, to the effect that it was an “Artistic Agency,” whatever that might mean. There was nothing to explain it, except the sign, for most of the windows, from top to bottom, were concealed by green-slatted sun blinds. One or two, where the slats were broken away in places, revealed dingy, yellowed window shades, pulled to the bottom of the sash.
It was a double house, with an alleyway down one side. The building jammed against it on the other side looked as if it had not been tenanted for years.
Chick slipped down the steep, iron steps into the basement yard of the empty house. It was not his first visit. That had been made several days previously.
Under the high flight of steps leading to the front door was a door, hidden in gloom even in the daytime. Now, at night, it was absolutely black.
Through the keyhole of this door Chick blew two peculiar notes, suggesting a cat courtship, only not so loud as one generally hears during such meetings.
Hardly had the last of the second note ceased when a bolt was noiselessly drawn back on the other side, and the door opened a little way.
“How is it, Patsy?” whispered Chick.
“That you, Chick?”
“Of course. Still there?”