THE GIRL IN HIS HOUSE
Street until he came to a house that had a small lawn at one side, protected by a high iron grille. Glancing right and left to assure himself that his actions were unobserved, he climbed over this grille, easily and silently, like the practised athlete he was. Crouching, he ran down the garden to the rear fence, which was of board. A single vault carried him over this. Over three more wooden fences he went, avoiding ash-cans and clothes-lines, until he came to a pause in the rear of the brownstone in Seventy-second Street. He wiped the perspiration from his forehead.
"Lordy! but this is like old times!"
A dog suddenly broke forth in shrill, furious barks.
"Somebody's poodle!" He shrank against the fence and waited for the racket to subside. The old rule still held—barking dogs didn't bite.
As he rested, a new thought wedged itself in. Clare Wendell! He had come thirteen thousand miles because he had learned that she was a widow, and for nearly three hours he hadn't given her a single thought. The ironic chuckle died in his throat, however.
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