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Back once more to the street he made the journey safely, nothing happening on the way out into the November night to alarm him. The winking, blinking electrically jewelled clock in the sign up the street told him it was just five minutes past midnight. He headed north, but for a few rods only. At Fortieth Street he turned west for a short block and at Seventh Avenue he hailed a south-bound trolley car. But before boarding the car he cast a quick backward scrutiny along the route he had come. Cabs moved to and fro, shuttle fashion, but seemingly no pedestrians were following behind him.

He was not particularly fearful of being pursued. Since he had cleared out from the Clarenden without mishap it was scarcely to be figured that anyone would or could now be shadowing him. He felt quite secure again–as secure as he had felt while in the locked room in the Bellhaven, because now he had in his custody that which gave him, in double and triple measure, the sense of assurance. One hand was thrust deep into his trousers pocket, where it caressed and fondled the flat perforated disk that was there. It pleased him to feel the thing grow warmer under his fingers, guaranteeing him against mischance. He did not so much as twist his head to glance out of the car window as the car passed Thirty-ninth Street.

At Thirtieth Street he got off the car and walked west to Silver’s place. Ninth Avenue was almost empty and, as compared with Broadway, lay in deep shadows. The lights of the bar, filtering through the filmed glass in one window of Silver’s, made a yellowish blur in what was otherwise a row of blank, dead house fronts. Above the saloon the squatty three-story building was all dark, and from this circumstance Trencher felt sure he had come to the rendezvous before the Kid arrived. Alongside the saloon door he felt his way into a narrow entryway that was as black as a coal bunker and went up a flight of wooden steps to the second floor. At the head of the steps he fumbled with his hand until he found a doorknob. As he knew, this door would not be locked except from the inside; unless it contained occupants it was never locked. He knew, too, what furniture it contained–one table and three or four chairs. Steering a careful course to avoid bumping into the table, which, as he recalled, should be in the middle of the floor, he found the opposite wall and, after a moment’s search with his hands, a single electric bulb set in a wall bracket. He flipped on the light.

“That’s right,” said a voice behind him. “Now that you’ve got your mitts up, keep ’em up!”

As regards the position of his hands Trencher obeyed. He turned his head though, and over his shoulder he looked into the middle-aged face of Murtha, of the Central Office. Murtha’s right hand was in his coat pocket and Trencher knew that Murtha had him covered–through the cloth of the coat.

“Hello, Murtha,” said Trencher steadily enough, “what’s the idea?”

“The idea is for you to stand right where you are without making any breaks until I get through frisking you,” said Murtha.

On noiseless feet he stepped across the floor, Trencher’s back being still to him, and one of his hands, the left one, with deft movements shifted about over Trencher’s trunk, searching for a weapon.

“Got no gat on you, eh?” said Murtha. “Well, that’s good. Now then, bring your hands down slow, and keep ’em close together. That’s it–slow. I’m taking no chances, understand, and you’d better not take any either.”

Again Trencher obeyed. Still standing behind him Murtha slipped his arms about Trencher’s middle and found first one of Trencher’s wrists and then the other. There was a subdued clicking of steel mechanisms.

“Now then,” said Murtha, falling back a pace or two, “I guess you can turn round if you want to.”