Ronicky went to the window and sat alone.  Few of the roomers were home in the house opposite.  They were out for the evening, or for dinner, at least, and the face of the building was dark and cold, the light from the street lamp glinting unevenly on the windowpanes.  He had sat there staring at the old house so many hours in the past that it was beginning to be like a face to him, to be studied as one might study a human being.  And the people it sheltered, the old hag who kept the door, the sneering man and Caroline Smith, were to the house like the thoughts behind a man’s face, an inscrutable face.  But, if one cannot pry behind the mask of the human, at least it is possible to enter a house and find—­

At this point in his thoughts Ronicky Doone rose with a quickening pulse.  Suppose he, alone, entered that house tonight by stealth, like a burglar, and found what he could find?

He brushed the idea away.  Instantly it returned to him.  The danger of the thing, and danger there certainly would be in the vicinity of him of the sardonic profile, appealed to him more and more keenly.  Moreover, he must go alone.  The heavy-footed Gregg would be a poor helpmate on such an errand of stealth.

Ronicky turned away from the window, turned back to it and looked once more at the tall front of the building opposite; then he started to get ready for the expedition.

The preparations were simple.  He put on a pair of low shoes, very light and with rubber heels.  In them he could move with the softness and the speed of a cat.  Next he dressed in a dark-gray suit, knowing that this is the color hardest to see at night.  His old felt hat he had discarded long before in favor of the prevailing style of the average New Yorker.  For this night expedition he put on a cap which drew easily over his ears and had a long visor, shadowing the upper part of his face.  Since it might be necessary to remain as invisible as possible, he obscured the last bit of white that showed in his costume, with a black neck scarf.

Then he looked in the glass.  A lean face looked back at him, the eyes obscured under the cap, a stern, resolute face, with a distinct threat about it.  He hardly recognized himself in the face in the glass.

He went to his suit case and brought out his favorite revolver.  It was a long and ponderous weapon to be hidden beneath his clothes, but to Ronicky Doone that gun was a friend well tried in many an adventure.  His fingers went deftly over it.  It literally fell to pieces at his touch, and he examined it cautiously and carefully in all its parts, looking to the cartridges before he assembled the weapon again.  For, if it became necessary to shoot this evening, it would be necessary to shoot to kill.

He then strolled down the street, passing the house opposite, with a close scrutiny.  A narrow, paved sidewalk ran between it and the house on its right, and all the windows opening on this small court were dark.  Moreover, the house which was his quarry was set back several feet from the street, an indentation which would completely hide him from anyone who looked from the street.  Ronicky made up his mind at once.  He went to the end of the block, crossed over and, turning back on the far side of the street, slipped into the opening between the houses.