rted from some foreign land, was still
far from deserted; the quiet, if quiet it could be called, was but
comparative, there were many yet about, and he had no desire to attract
attention by any evidence of undue haste. And, besides, Spider Jack's
was just ahead, making the corner of the alleyway a few hundred feet
farther on, and he had very good reasons for desiring to approach
Spider's little novelty store at a pace that would afford him every
opportunity for observation.

On he shuffled along the street, until, reaching Spider Jack's, a little
two-storied, tumble-down brick structure, a muttered exclamation of
satisfaction escaped him. The shop was closed and dark; and, though
Spider Jack lived above the store, there were no lights even in the
upper windows. Spider Jack presumably was either out, or in bed! So far,
then, he could have asked for nothing more.

Jimmie Dale edged in close to the building as he slouched by, so close
that his hat brim seemed to touch the windowpane. It was possible that
from a room at the rear of the store there might be a light with a
telltale ray perhaps filtering through, say, a door crack. But there was
nothing--only blackness within.

He paused at the corner of the building by the alleyway. Down here,
adjoining the high board fence of Spider Jack's back yard, Makoff made
pretense at pawnbrokering in a small and dingy wooden building, that was
little more pretentious than a shed--and in Makoff's place, so far as he
could see, there was no light, either.

Jimmie Dale's fingers were industriously rolling a cigarette, as, under
the brim of his slouch hat, his eyes were noting every detail around
him. A yard in against the wall of Spider Jack's, the wall cutting
off the rays of the street lamp at a sharp angle, it was shadowy and
black--and beyond that, farther in, the alleyway was like a pit. It
would take less, far less, than the fraction of a second to gain that
yard, but some one was approaching behind him, and a little group of
people loitered, with annoying persistency, directly across the way on
the other side of the street. Jimmie Dale stuck the cigarette between
his lips, fumbled in his pockets, and finally produced a box of matches.
The group opposite was moving on now; the footsteps he had heard behind
him, those of a man, drew nearer, the man passed by--and the box of
matches in Jimmie Dale's hand dropped to the ground. He reached to pick
them up, and in his stooping post