a dirt-grimed window at one side of the hall. It moved slightly in as if set on hinges.
Then there was dead silence. Again he hammered at the door. A slight snap suddenly sounded. This was caused by the cover to the little circular hole in being shot back.
"What do you want?" sharply demanded the voice of some one behind the hole, invisible for the darkness of the closed in room or entry beyond.
"Is this the United States Mail Order House?" asked Frank.
"The what?"
Frank repeated the magnificent-sounding name.
"Never heard of it."
"Well, then, is there a Mr. Wacker here?" persisted Frank.
"No. Nobody but a sick old man. Go away."
"Hold on," said Frank, but the wicket went shut with a sudden snap.
"Of course this is the place," thought Frank. "That's something to know. Hello—"
Five steps down the stairs Frank started. Something had struck his shoulder. As he turned he noticed the window being pulled to. Also at his feet the object that had struck him.
It was a little piece of tin—around it was tied a fragment of coarse manilla paper. Frank picked
