its shining brass
knobs, neat window curtains and scrubbed steps one would have sworn
that good, church-going people lived there--but you never can tell!

There was no wagon or van in the block that might have contained the
police, but it was only a hundred feet or so to the corner. Evan had
faith in the inspector. As a matter of fact, the van was about half a
minute late in arriving; not a very long time, but long enough to make
a fatal difference in modern tactics.

They heard steps approaching the door from within--still no sign of the
police.

"Fumble for the envelope," Evan swiftly whispered. "It'll gain time."

The door was opened by a woman as respectable in appearance as her
house, in short a hard-working, middle-aged American woman with an
expression slightly embittered perhaps as a result of the influx of
"dagoes" in her neighbourhood. She looked at them enquiringly. George
Deaves fumbled assiduously in his inside breast pocket.

"What is it?" she asked sharply.

"I have something for the gentleman up-stairs," he muttered.

"Oh!" She waited five seconds more. "What's the matter?"

"I can't seem to find it."

Still no sign of the police. Evan was on tenterhooks. To create a
diversion he asked:

"Has the gentleman lived here long?"

"Only took the rooms yesterday. Hasn't moved in yet."

Evan's heart went down. "Oh, then he isn't in?"

"Yes, he and his friend are up there waiting for the furniture."

She was evidently a victim rather than an accomplice. Still no sign of
the police! George Deaves had not the assurance to keep up his
pretended search. Evan signalled to him with a look to hand over the
envelope. He did so with trembling hands.

At the same moment Evan, whose ears were stretched for sounds from
within the house, heard a voice say, not loud: "They're coming over the
back fence!" And another voice answered: "Beat it, then."

To Evan it was like the view halloo of the huntsman. He could not
resist it. Never thinking of danger, he pushed past the astonished
landlady and sprang for the stairs, pulling his pistol as he ran. As
he left the stoop he had an impression of a motor van turning the
corner from MacDougall.

The woman screamed, and George Deaves yelled to Evan to come back. The
woman slammed the door in Deaves' face with the impulse of keeping out
at least one intruder. This was unfortunate for Evan, for it delayed
the entrance of the police.

As Evan wen