Climb up over the back porch. Don't make any noise.
The window will be unbolted. A friend is mailing this. For God's
sake, don't fail me.
The note was signed "Kitty." Below were given the house and street
number. Clay studied the letter a long time--the wording of it, the
formation of the letters, the spirit that had actuated the writer. It
was written upon a sheet of cheap lined paper torn from a pad. The
envelope was one of those sold at the post-office already stamped.
Was the note genuine? Or did it lead to a trap? He could not tell.
It might be a plant or it might be a wail of real distress. There was
only one way to find out unless he went to the police. That way was to
go through with the adventure. The police! Clay went back to the
thought of them several times. The truth was that he had put himself
out of court there. He was in bad with the bluecoats and would
probably be arrested if he showed up at headquarters.
He decided to play a lone hand except for such help as Johnnie could
give him.
Clay took a downtown car and rode to the cross-street mentioned in the
letter for a preliminary tour of investigation. The street designated
was one of plain brownstone fronts with iron-grilled doors. The blank
faces of the houses invited no confidence. It struck him that there
was something sinister about the neighborhood, but perhaps the thought
was born of the fear. Number 121 had windows barred with ornamental
grilles.
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