eared at that moment. He ran
down the painted wooden stairs and hurried through the room without
looking to right or left. The piano kept on, and the men at the tables
were still engrossed with their glasses and one another. Wardrop was
very pale; he bolted into a man at the door, and pushed him aside
without ceremony.

"You might go up now," Hunter said, rising. "I will see where the young
gentleman is making for. Just open the door of the different rooms
up-stairs, look around for Fleming, and if any one notices you, ask if
Al Hunter is there. That will let you out."

He left me then, and after waiting perhaps a minute, I went up-stairs
alone. The second floor was the ordinary upper story of a small dwelling
house. The doors were closed, but loud talking, smoke, and the rattle of
chips floated out through open transoms. From below the noise of the
piano came up the staircase, unmelodious but rhythmical, and from the
street on which the house faced an automobile was starting its engine,
with a series of shot-like explosions.

The noise was confusing, disconcerting. I opened two doors, to find only
the usual poker table, with the winners sitting quietly, their cards
bunched in the palms of their hands, and the losers, growing more
voluble as the night went on, buying chips recklessly, drinking more
than they should. The atmosphere was reeking with smoke.

The third door I opened was that of a dingy bath-room, with a zinc tub
and a slovenly wash-stand. The next, however, was different. The light
streamed out through the transom as in the other rooms, but there was no
noise from within. With my hand on the door, I hesitated--then, with
Hunter's injunction ringing in my ears, I opened it and looked in.

A breath of cool night air from an open window met me. There was no
noise, no smoke, no sour odor of stale beer. A table had been drawn to
the center of the small room, and was littered with papers, pen and ink.
At one corner was a tray, containing the remnants of a meal; a pillow
and a pair of blankets on a couch at one side showed the room had been
serving as a bedchamber.

But none of these things caught my eye at first. At the table, leaning
forward, his head on his arms, was a man. I coughed, and receiving no
answer, stepped into the room.

"I beg your pardon," I said, "but I am looking, for--"

Then the truth burst on me, overwhelmed me. A thin stream was spreading
over the papers on the table, moving slowly,