“That’s a rear office on the second floor,” Patsy rightly reasoned. “That door must open into a basement, however, for the land slopes toward the front of the building. By Jove! I must find out what’s doing.”
Without a sound that could have been heard in the office mentioned, he climbed over the gate and dropped upon the pavement in the alley, then picked his way through the gloom toward the door. He then found that it was an ordinary storm door, opening outward and protecting an interior one, which was securely locked.
He listened vainly for any sound from within, also at two ground-glass windows near by, evidently those of a basement, then as dark as a pocket. Both were securely fastened.
“Gee! I’m no better off,” he said to himself. “If I could get up to that lighted window, I might learn whether Shannon is there, or—by gum! I have it. I can both see and hear, all right, by standing on the top of this outer door. It’s some stunt to get up there, though, without being heard.”
He demurred only briefly, seeing no other way to accomplish his object. He opened the door, then hung by his hands from the top for a moment, finding that the hinges would support him. He then drew himself up, working one leg over the outer corner, and finally worming himself to a seat on the unsteady perch. Twice he had swung against the building, but met the wall noiselessly with his shoulder.
Reaching up, he then could grasp the stone sill of the lighted window. He drew himself up, hanging clear of the door, then nearly closed it with his feet, bringing it to a position directly under the window, enabling him to stand in a crouching posture on it, still grasping the stone sill.
A beam of light from under the roller shade then fell on Patsy’s grimly determined face. Voices from within reached his ears. He peered into the room and saw, seated in opposite chairs, Jim Shannon and Professor Karl Graff.
“The man I trailed to Leary’s road house! The man who killed the cat!” The thoughts flashed swiftly through Patsy’s mind. “By gracious, it now is a cinch! He’s the big finger of the gang. But who the deuce is he?”
Though puzzled as to his identity, Patsy read plainly in Professor Graff’s gray-bearded face that he was discussing something of serious importance. His narrow eyes had a vicious gleam and glitter. He was drawn forward in his chair, with his hands clenched on his knees and his gaze riveted on Shannon’s dark face, from which he had removed his disguise.
“You made it clear to him, Jim, perfectly clear?” Graff was asking. “There must be no mistake, no delay.”