"Look at that printing above the door," said he.
There, plainly enough, were the rudely painted words, "La Vita Place."
"We're takin' our scope of cable this far, all right," observed Ferral, dropping the match and laying a hand on the door-knob, "and I guess I've got as good a right in Uncle Jack's house as anybody. Open up, I say!" he shouted, and shook the door vigorously.
No one answered. Not a sound could be heard inside the building.
Matt stepped back and ran his eye over the gloomy outline of the structure.
It was a two-story adobe, the windows small and deeply set in the thick walls. The window through which the light had been seen was now as dark as the others. This was as puzzling as any of the other events of the night, but it could be explained. Those inside were not in a mood to receive callers; but, even if that was the case, why could not some one come to the door and say so?
"I'm going to get in," said Ferral decidedly, stepping back as though he would kick the door open.
"Wait a minute," suggested Matt, "and let's see if the kitchen door isn't unlocked."
"It isn't—I've tried it."
"How about the windows?"