"Come to the side door," he added swiftly, lowering his voice, "the one on the south. Give three raps. By the way, what is your name?"
"Gordon Craig," I answered without pausing to think. His eyes twinkled shrewdly.
"Ever been known by any other?"
"I enlisted under another; I ran away from home, and was not of age."
"Oh, I see; well, that makes no difference to me. Don't forget, Craig, the side door at nine."
I glanced back as we turned the corner; he was still standing at the edge of the walk, tapping the concrete with his cane. Out of sight I looked curiously at the card. It was the advertisement of a clothing house, and on the back was written "P. B. Neale, 108 Chestnut Street."
The mules walked the half dozen blocks back to the lumber yard, while my mind reviewed this conversation. There was a bit of mystery to it which had fascination, because of a vague promise of adventure. Evidently this man Neale had need of a stranger to help him out in some scheme, and had picked me by chance as being the right party. Well, if the pay was good, and the purpose not criminal, I had no objections to the spice of danger. Indeed, that was what I loved in life, my heart throbbing eagerly in anticipation. I was young, full-blooded, strong, willing enough to take desperate chances for sufficient reward. There was a suspicion in my mind that all was not straight—Neale's questions, and the private signals to be given at a side door left that impression—yet I could only wait and learn, and besides, my conscience was not overly delicate. I had lived among a rough, reckless set, had experienced enough of the seamy side of life to be somewhat careless. I would take the chance, at least, in hope of escape from this routine.
All the rest of the day, for this meeting had occurred early in the afternoon, I labored quietly, loading and unloading lumber, my muscles aching from a species of toil to which I had not yet become accustomed, my mind active in imagination over the possibilities of this new employment. I was not obliged to live this sort of life, but the uneasy spirit of adventure held me. My father, from whom I had not heard a word in two years, was a prominent manufacturer in a New England village. The early death of my mother had left me to his care when I was but ten years old, and we failed to understand each other, drifting apart, until a final quarrel had sent me adrift. No doubt this was more my fault than his, although he was so deeply immersed in business that he failed utterly to understand the restless soul of a boy. I was in my junior year at Princeton, when the final break came, over an innocent youthful escapade, and, in my pride, I never even returned home to explain, but disappeared, drifting inevitably into the underworld, because of lack of training for anything better. This all occurred four years previous, three of which had been passed in the ranks, yet even now I was stubbornly resolved not to return unsuccessful. Perhaps in this new adventure I should discover the key with which to unlock the door of fortune.
I possessed a fairly decent suit of clothes, now pressed and cleaned after the rough trip from the coast, and dressed as carefully as possible in the dingy room of my boarding house. A glance into the cracked mirror convinced me, that, however I might have otherwise suffered from the years of hardship, I had not deteriorated physically. My face was bronzed by the sun, my muscles like iron, my eyes clear, every movement of my body evidencing strength, my features lean and clean cut under a head of closely trimmed hair. Satisfied with the inspection, confident of myself, I slipped the card in my pocket, and went out. It was still daylight, but there was a long walk before me. Chestnut Street was across the river, in the more aristocratic section. I had hauled lumber there the first day of my work, and recalled its characteristics—long rows of stone-front houses, with an occasional residence standing alone, set well back from the street. It was dark enough when I got there, and began seeking the number. I followed the block twice in uncertainty, so many of the houses were dark, but finally located the one I believed must be 108. It was slightly back from the street, a large stone mansion, surrounded by a low coping of brick and with no light showing anywhere. I was obliged to mount the front steps before I could assure myself this was the place. The street was deserted, except for two men talking under the electric light at the corner, and the only sound arose from the passing of a surface car a block away. The silence and loneliness got upon my nerves, but, without yielding, I followed the narrow cement walk around the corner of the house. Here it was dark in the shadow of the wall, yet one window on the first floor exhibited a faint glow at the edge of a closely drawn curtain. Encouraged slightly by this proof that the house was indeed occupied, I felt my way forward until I came to some stone steps, and a door. I rapped on the wood three times, my nerves tingling from excitement. There was a moment's delay, so that I lifted my hand again, and then the door opened silently. Within was like the black mouth of a cave, and I involuntarily took a step backward.
"This you, Craig?"