In spite of the fact that there would be an exciting time for Chick in the course of half an hour or so—or, perhaps, because of it—he was quite able to compose himself for a nap without allowing future business to worry him.
He went up the stairs to a back room, where Patsy Garvan had rigged up a sort of couch for himself while on watch in the house the night before. It was composed of an empty box and some burlap. Anybody who happened to be fastidious might have found it unsatisfactory. But it suited Chick. He was glad to have anything big enough for him to lie down on.
“There’s one thing about this profession of ours,” he soliloquized, “that you don’t find in every kind of work. That is, its variety, as well as its excitement. A fellow never gets dull or lonesome. If he did, I don’t think he would be any good as a detective.”
Chick looked at the dirty windows, through which glimmered the faintest reflection from the street arc light already referred to, and was wondering, in a dreamy sort of way, how many feet it would be from the window to the ground, in case it should become advisable or necessary for him to jump out, when he sprang to his feet abruptly, and relieved himself of the two words, “Blithering idiot!”
As no one was in the room but himself, it might have been a matter of speculation as to whom he referred, if he had not proceeded rapidly to make it clear.
“I am an ass—with long ears! I left that door open—the one leading from the kitchen to the stone hall and front yard door. I know I did. It was shut and locked, with the key in the door. Why in thunder didn’t I lock it when I came through? I guess I must have been in too much of a hurry. If any one goes into that room and sees the door, the beans will all be spilled, that’s sure.”
The detective knew it would not be long before somebody would be in the kitchen, to look at the crucible. The door would be found open—and then—— Well, he did not stop to think about what would probably happen in that case. He hustled out of the room and down the stairs.
It was quite a trip back to the kitchen. He had to go to the sub-basement, to the cellar, and squeeze through the hole where the bricks had been taken out. Then he would have to climb stairs and make his way through doors, and at every step he might meet from one to six men, who would kill him with as little compunction as they would smash a mosquito.
“Fine prospect!” muttered Chick. “But—it’s all in the game!”
He gained the kitchen without interference. The molten metal still simmered on the stove. Everything was just as he had seen it on his previous visit. Best of all, nobody was in the place. The person, whoever he might be in charge of the metal, was still attending to matters elsewhere.