“I will go there with the police. You and Murren had better be on the ground, but don’t go too soon, and don’t make yourselves conspicuous or they might take alarm. Here is the address. You had better take it down.”
“Oh, I’ll find the place all——” Then Thompson thought a moment and pulled himself together. “Thanks,” he said, carefully noting down the street and number.
The detachment of police drew up in front of the place a few minutes before 2 o’clock. The streets were deserted, and so silent were the blue coats that the footsteps of a belated wayfarer sounded sharply in the night air from the stone pavement of a distant avenue.
“Are you sure,” said McCrasky to the man in charge of the police, “that there is not a private entrance somewhere?”
“Certainly there is,” was the impatient reply: “Sergeant McCollum and four men are stationed in the alley behind. We know our business, sir.”
McCrasky thought this was a snub, and he was right. He looked around in the darkness for his reporters. He found them standing together in a doorway on the opposite side of the street.
“Been here long?” he whispered.
Murren was gloomy and did not answer. The religious editor removed his corn-cob and said briefly; “About ten minutes, sir.” Thompson was gazing with interest at the dark building across the way.
“You’ve seen nobody come out?”
“Nobody. On the contrary, about half a dozen have gone up that stairway.”