Almost before he knew that he had arrived at a decision, Spike had groped his way across the icy street and pressed the bell-button on the front door of the least unprepossessing house on the block.

For a long time there was no answer.  Finally a light shone in the hall, and the skinny figure of a man, shivering violently despite the blanket-robe which enfolded him, appeared in the hallway.  He flashed on the porch light from inside and peered through the glass door.  Apparently reassured, he cracked the door slightly.

“Yes.  What do you want?”

At sound of a human voice, Spike instantly felt easier.  The fact that he could converse, that he had shed his terrible loneliness, steadied him as nothing else could have done.  He was surprised at his own calmness, at the fact that there was scarcely a quaver in the voice with which he answered the man.

“I’m Spike Walters,” he said with surprising quietness.  “I’m a driver for the Yellow and White Taxicab Company.  My cab is No. 92,381.  I have a man in my cab who has been badly injured.  I want to telephone to the city.”

The little householder opened the door wider, and Spike entered.  Cold as the house was, from the standpoint of the man within, its hold-over warmth was a godsend to Spike’s thoroughly chilled body.

The little man designated a telephone on the wall, then started nervously as central answered and Spike barked a single command into the transmitter: 

“Police-station, please!”

“Police?”

“Never you mind, sir,” Spike told the householder.  “Hello!  Police!” he called to the operator.

There was a pause, then Spike went on: 

“This is Spike Walters—­Yellow and White Taxi Company.  I’m out at No. 981 East End Avenue.  There’s a dead man in my cab!”

The weary voice at the other end became suddenly alive.

“A dead man!”

“Yes.”

“Who is he?”

“I don’t know.  That’s why I called you.”

“When did he die?  How?”

Spike controlled himself with an effort.

“Don’t you understand?  He has been killed—­”

“The devil you say!” replied the voice at headquarters, and the little householder chimed in with a frightened squeak.

“Yes,” repeated Spike painstakingly.  “The man is dead—­killed.  It is very peculiar.  I can’t explain over the phone.  I called up to ask you what I shall do.”

“Hold connection a minute!” Spike heard a hurried whispered conversation at the other end, then the voice barked back at him:  “Stay where you are—­couple of officers coming, and coming fast!”

It was Dan O’Leary, night desk sergeant, who was on duty at headquarters that night, and Sergeant Dan O’Leary was a good deal of an institution on the city’s force.  He hopped excitedly from his desk into the office of Eric Leverage, the chief of police.

Chief Leverage, a broad-shouldered, heavy-set, bushy-eyebrowed individual, looked up from the chess-board, annoyed at this interruption of a game which had been in progress since ten o’clock that night.  O’Leary grabbed a salute from thin air.