It was making as much noise as a crosstown trolley car with a flat wheel.
Barney saw Corcoran far down the street.
He slipped back into the house again to give the detective time to reach them, and he grinned in the privacy of his room, enjoying himself. At the thought that the men might get frightened and go off without him, he hurried out again, taking a picture book as if he had returned for that.
Corcoran had disappeared.
The street was empty.
The houses looked blank.
The man at the door of the taxi smiled and wagged a hooked finger at him. And Barney stood on the steps, stupidly reluctant, his book under his arm, paralyzed by the thought that Corcoran had deserted him—to be revenged.
If the auto had been the basket of a balloon, ready to leap into space with him he could not have approached it with a more fascinated mind in a more apprehensive body. He drew
