at
Bristol Bob's until they decided that it was time to sally out. He might
perhaps still find them there when he got back; at any rate, from there
he must pick up their trail again. On the other hand--all this was but
supposition--they might make at once for the Sanctuary to lie in wait
for him. In any case there was need, desperate need, for haste.

He glanced sharply around him; and, by the side of the tenement house
now that bordered on the alleyway, with a curious, swift, gliding
motion, he seemed to blend into the shadow and darkness. It was the
Sanctuary, that room on the first floor of the tenement, the tenement
that had three entrances, three exits--a passageway through to the
saloon on the next street that abutted on the rear, the usual front
door, and the side door in the alleyway. Gone was the shuffling gait.
Quick, alert, he ran, crouching, bent down, along the alleyway, reached
the side door, opened it stealthily, closed it behind him with equal
caution, and, in the dark entry, stood motionless, listening intently.

There was no sound. He began to mount the rickety, dilapidated stairs;
and, where it seemed that the lightest tread must make them creak out in
blatant protest, his trained muscles, delicately compensating his body
weight, carried him upward with a silence that was almost uncanny. There
was need of silence, as there was need of haste. He was not so sure
now of the time at his disposal--that he had even reached the Sanctuary
FIRST. How long had he loitered in that half-dazed way on the Bowery?
He did not know--perhaps longer than he had imagined. There was the
possibility that Whitey Mack and Lannigan were already above, waiting
for him; but, even if they were not already there and he got away before
they came, it was imperative that no one should know that Larry the Bat
had come and gone.

He reached the landing, and paused again, his right hand, with a vicious
muzzle of his automatic peeping now from between his fingers, thrown
a little forward. It was black, utterly black, around him. Again that
stealthy, catlike tread--and his ear was at the keyhole of the Sanctuary
door. A full minute, priceless though it was, passed; then, satisfied
that the room was empty, he drew his head back from the keyhole, and
those slim, tapering fingers, that in their tips seemed to embody
all the human senses, felt over the lock. Apparently it had been
undisturbed; but that was no proof that Whitey Mack had no