There was a tap on the door. And to Wilkinson's "Come in," Leech reappeared.
"I merely wanted to send my regards to Miss Leslie," he said, "in case you call her up."
"I won't call anybody up," growled Wilkinson. "My people don't know anything about me other than that I'm dead."
Nor did Wilkinson call anybody up. He merely stopped drinking beer, went downstairs and got a handful of black cigars, and then returning to his room smoked all through the long night, that is, until two o'clock in the morning. At that hour he heard a church bell chime and started for the window. In the moonlight the dingy backyard seemed peaceful and deserted. He took off his shoes and stole out upon the fire-escape; and climbing carefully down rung after rung until at last he stood on terra firma, he then started for a secret alleyway which, as he had ascertained, had been used in frequent evasions of the police. But no sooner had he started toward it than a hand was laid upon his arm; and turning, he found himself face to face with one of Leech's plain-clothesmen.
"Taking the air?" queried the man, pleasantly, deepening his hold on the arm of Wilkinson.
"No," said Wilkinson, looking about the squalid backyard, "but I saw somebody moving around down here—must have been you—and mistook him for a burglar. Thought I'd scare him off."
"He didn't scare," said the sleuth, drily. "Shall we—er—return?"
They returned, the detective lounging, wide-eyed and comfortable, upon the fire-escape above, while Wilkinson drew off his clothes and slept like a log for the remainder of the night. At eight o'clock in the morning he was up and dressed; and at eight o'clock Leech appeared. But no sooner was he in the room than Wilkinson drew on his slouched hat and seized Leech by the arm, saying:
"Come on, I'm ready."
"Where are you going?" cried Leech, in alarm.