There were some half dozen
signs on the doorway, for the most part time worn and shabby, amongst
them that of Henry Grenville, Attorney-at-Law.
There were no lights in any of the windows, but Jimmie Dale, as he tried
the door, found it unlocked, and, opening it noiselessly, stepped
inside. Here, a single incandescent suspended over the stair well gave a
murky illumination to the surroundings. A narrow corridor, dotted with
office doors, was on his left; the stairway--there was no elevator--was
directly in front of him. He stood motionless for an instant, listening.
There was no sound. He moved forward then, as silent as the silence
around him, and began to mount the stairs. Old Grenville's office, he
knew, was at the rear of the corridor on the first landing.
It was after midnight now, quite a little after midnight. Jimmie Dale's
fingers, in the right-hand pocket of his tattered coat, closed over the
stock of his automatic. Still no sound! Was he too late to forestall the
Rat; or, by no means an unlikely possibility, was the Rat there now; or
was--a low, muttered exclamation, that mingled surprise and
bewilderment, came suddenly from Jimmie Dale's lips.
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