with the odd number of the "move." Theirs was the chance to observe, and
an open attempt to follow them would be ridiculous. Then, the footprints
gave him an idea.

Dimly behind could be discerned the two men, as he quickened his pace,
turning into a side street, off Fifth Avenue. Here he knew that traffic
would be light, and his footprints the best evidence of his progress.
The men unwittingly caught his plan, and dropped almost out of sight.
At the intersection of Madison Avenue, they quickened their steps, and
caught up with him again. Across corners, down quiet streets, and by
purposed diagonals he led them: still they dogged his footprints.
So adroit were they that only one experienced in the art could have
realized their watchfulness.

Shirley now turned a corner quickly, into an unusually deserted
thoroughfare, running with short steps, so as not to betray his speed
by the tracks. Before they had time to round the corner he ran up
the thinly blanketed steps of a private residence. Then he backed, as
swiftly down the stoop, and thus crablike, walked across the street,
down a dozen houses and backward still, up the steps of another private
dwelling. Inside the vestibule he hid himself. The entry had strong
wooden outside doors, and he tried the strength of the hinges: they
satisfied him. A dim light burned behind the glass of the inner portal.
He quietly clambered up the door, and balanced himself on the wood which
gallantly stood the strain. Fortunately it did not come within four feet
of the high ceiling of the old fashioned house.

He suffered a good ten minutes' wait before his ruse was rewarded. Being
on the "fence" was a pastime compared to this precarious test of his
muscles. The two men who had followed the first footprints tired of
waiting before the house. One of them determined to investigate the
other steps, which led into the house of their vigilance, from the other
dwelling. And so he followed on, to the vestibule where he rang the
bell. Shirley could have touched his head, so near he was, but the
darkness of the upper space covered the retreat of the criminologist.

"What do you want?" was the angry question of an indignant old caretaker
who answered the bell tardily. "You woke me up."

"Say, lady, can I speak to Mr. Montague Shirley?" began the man,
gingerly.

"You get away from this house, you loafer or I'll call the police. No
one by that name ain't here. Now, you get!"

She slammed the