“Simple enough,” smiled Roger. “If we can help poor old Dan to sleep better as easily as that, we must do it, eh?”
“I—I suppose so,” John Quincy agreed.
They had climbed Russian Hill, and were speeding along a deserted avenue lined by imposing mansions. Roger leaned forward. “Go on to the corner,” he said to the chauffeur. “We can walk back,” he explained to John Quincy. “Best not to leave the car before the house. Might excite suspicion.”
Still John Quincy had no comment to make. They alighted at the corner and walked slowly back along the avenue. In front of a big stone house, Roger paused. He looked carefully in all directions, then ran with surprising speed up the steps. “Come on,” he called softly.
John Quincy came. Roger unlocked the door and they stepped into a dark vestibule. Beyond that, darker still, was a huge hall, the dim suggestion of a grand staircase. Here and there an article of furniture, shrouded in white, stood like a ghost, marooned but patient. Roger took out a box of matches.
“Meant to bring a flashlight,” he said, “but I clean forgot. Wait here—I’ll hunt those candles in the pantry.”
He went off into the dark. John Quincy took a few cautious steps. He was about to sit down on a chair—but it was like sitting on the lap of a ghost. He changed his mind, stood in the middle of the floor, waited. Quiet, deathly quiet. The black had swallowed Roger, with not so much as a gurgle.
After what seemed an age, Roger returned, bearing two lighted candles. One each, he explained. John Quincy took his, held it high. The flickering yellow flame accentuated the shadows, was really of small help.
Roger led the way up the grand staircase, then up a narrower flight. At the foot of still another flight, in a stuffy passage on the third floor, he halted.
“Here we are,” he said. “This leads to the storage room under the roof. By gad, I’m getting too old for this sort of thing. I meant to bring a chisel to use on that lock. I know where the tools are—I’ll be gone only a minute. You go on up and locate the trunk.”
“All—all right,” answered John Quincy.
Again Roger left him. John Quincy hesitated. Something about a deserted house at midnight to dismay the stoutest heart—but nonsense! He was a grown man. He smiled, and started up the narrow stair. High above his head the yellow light of the candle flickered on the brown rafters of the unfinished store room.
He reached the top of the stairs, and paused. Gloom, gloom everywhere. Odd how floor boards will creak even when no one is moving over them. One was creaking back of him now.
He was about to turn when a hand reached from behind him and knocked the candle out of his grasp. It rolled on the floor, extinguished.
This was downright rude! “See here,” cried John Quincy, “wh—who are you?”
A bit of moonlight struggled in through a far window, and suddenly between John Quincy and that distant light there loomed the determined figure of a man. Something told the boy he had better get ready, but where he came from one had a moment or two for preparation. He had none here. A fist shot out and found his face, and John Quincy Winterslip of Boston went down amid the rubbish of a San Francisco attic. He heard, for a second, the crash of planets in collision, and then the clatter of large feet on the stairs. After that, he was alone with the debris.
He got up, thoroughly angry, and began brushing off the dinner coat that had been his tailor’s pride. Roger arrived. “Who was that?” he demanded breathlessly. “Somebody went down the back stairs to the kitchen. Who was it?”
“How should I know?” inquired John Quincy with pardonable peevishness. “He didn’t introduce himself to me.” His cheek was stinging; he put his handkerchief to it and noted in the light of Roger’s candle that it was red when it came away. “He wore a ring,” added John Quincy. “Damned bad taste!”
“Hit you, eh?” inquired Roger.
“I’ll say he did.”
“Look!” Roger cried. He pointed. “The trunk-lock smashed.” He went over to investigate. “And the box is gone. Poor old Dan!”
John Quincy continued to brush himself off. Poor old Dan’s plight gave him a vast pain, a pain which had nothing to do with his throbbing jaw. A fine nerve poor old Dan had to ask a complete stranger to offer his face for punishment in a dusty attic at midnight. What was it all about, anyhow?
Roger continued his search. “No use,” he announced. “The box is gone, that’s plain. Come on, we’ll go downstairs and look about. There’s your candle on the floor.”
John Quincy picked up the candle and relighted it from Roger’s flame. Silently they went below. The outer door of the kitchen stood open. “Left that way,” said Roger. “And, see”—he pointed to a window with a broken pane—“that’s where he came in.”
“How about the police?” suggested John Quincy.
Roger stared at him. “The police? I should say not! Where’s your discretion, my boy? This is not a police matter. I’ll have a new glass put in that window tomorrow. Come on—we might as well go home. We’ve failed.”
The note of reproof in his voice angered John Quincy anew. They left the extinguished candles on a table in the hall, and returned to the street.
“Well, I’ll have to cable Dan,” Roger said, as they walked toward the corner. “I’m afraid he’ll be terribly upset by this. It won’t tend to endear you to him, either.”
“I can struggle along,” said John Quincy, “without his affection.”
“If you could only have held that fellow till I came—”
“Look here,” said John Quincy, “I was taken unawares. How could I know that I was going up against the heavyweight champion
