"Come, then," he said, gruffly. "I want to be through with this business as soon as I can, for I've something else to do beside wasting me time like this."
He opened a rear door and led the way across a narrow courtyard.
A small frame dwelling stood before them. Connecting with the street was a narrow alley, now choked up with snow.
In the hurried survey of the scene taken by the detective, he observed that the snow was much trodden down by feet, as though several persons had passed in and out, notwithstanding the earliness of the hour.
"This way," said P. Slattery, opening the door of the rear house and advancing up a pair of rickety stairs.
The detective followed in silence.
Arriving at the top of the flight, the proprietor of the Donegal Shades knocked at the door opening immediately from the head of the stairs.
There was no answer from within.
An ominous stillness seemed to pervade the place, which was totally dark, save for the dim starlight which found its way through a broken window at the end of the hall.
"This is blamed strange!" muttered the man, rapping smartly again. "She can't be asleep, for it's only just now she went in."