It was
exactly twenty minutes after seven.
The car rolled up to the curb in front of the fashionable family hotel.
Jimmie Dale alighted.
"I shall not need you any more to-night, Benson," he said.
He walked quietly into the hotel, through the lobby, down a corridor,
and out of the entrance that gave on the cross street--then his pace
quickened. He traversed the block, crossed the road, turned the corner,
and a minute later was approaching the house she had designated. It was
one of a row. His pace slowed to a nonchalant stroll again. It was still
quite light, and he was by no means the only pedestrian on the street;
a moment's preliminary, even if cursory, examination of the exterior
would not be amiss! Counting the numbers ahead of him, he had already
located the house. He frowned a little. A light burned in the upstairs
front room. There was a light in the lower hallway as well, but that was
to be expected. Why the one upstairs? Had the Colonel and Mrs. Milford
already finished their dinner?
Jimmie Dale reached the house--and casually, without hesitation, mounted
the steps--and quite as casually, making a pretence of ringing the
electric bell, opened the unlocked outer door, stepped into the
vestibule, and, without a sound now, closed the door behind him.
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