Carter had rented a room in this house for years, and he had used it frequently. He opened the door of the room with a key.
The house was as quiet as a graveyard.
“This is a quiet joint,” Brockey said, as he followed the detective into the room and gazed around.
There was nothing about the place to indicate for what purpose it had been used by the detective. It was nothing more, to all outward appearances, than a plainly furnished bedroom.
“Take a seat, Brockey,” said Carter blandly, and at the same time he turned the key in the lock, took it out, and put it into his pocket.
“I wish you had some liquor about here,” Brockey remarked, as he sank down into a chair.
“I kin accommodate youse.”
“Can you?”
“Yes.”
Carter opened a bureau drawer, took out a bottle and glasses and placed them on the table.