In answer to the signal, the eye of a flash-light blinked near the front door of one of the houses in the middle of the block, and Peret, clinging to the shadows, crossed the street. Drawing his automatic, he traversed the lawn to the house.
“Bendlow?”
“H’luva night to be abroad, Chief,” came a hoarse whisper. “What’s the row, anyway?”
Although it was too dark to distinguish the speaker’s features, or, as a matter of fact, even to see the outline of his form, there was no mistaking the foghorn voice of Harvey Bendlow, former Secret Service agent and, at the present time, night manager of Peret’s Detective Agency. Restoring his automatic to his pocket, the Frenchman gripped the other’s hand.
“Haven’t time to explain now,” he said in an undertone. “We’ve got a big job ahead of us. How long have you been here?”
“’Bout an hour,” croaked Bendlow. “I came on the jump just as soon as your message was received at the office. I’ve been prowling around taking a look-see.”
“Seen anything of the occupant of the house?”
“Nope. I guess the Wolf is in the hay,” was Bendlow’s enigmatic reply.
“What’s that?” asked Peret sharply. “Who is this that you call the ‘Wolf’?”