"I don' know. Maybe five min'; maybe one."
"My Gawd!"
"Don' hang up! Leesten: firs' t'eeng you do getta da new girl out. Eef they getta dees new girl you go——"
But there came a quick click from the other end of the wire. Rose had ended the conversation.
Angel, still hatless, hurried through the few intervening streets and darted into that street to which he had just been speaking.
Already the early New York twilight had descended, and the block seemed, at first glance, to have turned to slumber. One distant, spluttering arc-light succeeded only in accentuating the gloom. From the patch of darkening sky into which the roofs blended, a bare handful of pale stars twinkled weakly, and on both sides, from corner to corner, the uniform, narrow houses rose in somber repetition, each with its brief, abrupt flight of steps, each with its shuttered windows, each silent behind its mask.
All this the Italian saw with accustomed eyes, and then he darted into the shadow of an areaway, because he saw also that, brief as had been his journey, Riley had arrived before him.
In a little knot of wise children, a patrol wagon, its sophisticated horses unconcernedly dozing, stood before Rose's house. An officer was in the doorway; hurried lights shifted from behind one bowed shutter to another, and gradually Angel became conscious that, all along the street, frightened faces were peeping from stealthily lifted blinds.
For quite some time the watcher waited. At last the big figure of Riley and a companion appeared in the open doorway and spoke to someone in the wagon. Through the evening quiet their voices came distinctly.
"Ready?" asked Riley.