Next he went through the pockets of the unconscious man who was only now beginning to stir slightly, as life returned after that stunning blow.

It was beginning to come to Ronicky that there was a strange relation between the men of this house.  Here were three who apparently started out to work at night, and yet they were certainly not at all the type of night clerks or night-shift engineers or mechanics.  He turned over the hand of the man he had struck down.  The palm was as soft as his own.

No, certainly not a laborer.  But they were all employed by “the old man.”  Who was he?  And was there some relation between all of these and the man who sneered?

At least Ronicky determined to learn all that could be read in the pockets of his victim.  There was only one thing.  That was a stub-nosed, heavy automatic.

It was enough to make Ronicky Doone sigh with relief.  At least he had not struck some peaceful, law-abiding fellow.  Any man might carry a gun—­Ronicky himself would have been uncomfortable without some sort of weapon about him but there are guns and guns.  This big, ugly automatic seemed specially designed to kill swiftly and surely.

He was considering these deductions when a tap came on the door.  Ronicky groaned.  Had they come already to find out what kept the senseless victim so long?

“Morgan, oh, Harry Morgan!” called a girl’s voice.

Ronicky Doone started.  Perhaps—­who could tell—­this might be Caroline Smith herself, come to tap at the door when he was on the very verge of abandoning the adventure.  Suppose it were someone else?

If he ventured out expecting to find Gregg’s lady and found instead quite another person—­well, women screamed at the slightest provocation, and, if a woman screamed in this house, it seemed exceedingly likely that she would rouse a number of men carrying just such short-nosed, ugly automatics as that which he had just taken from the pocket of Harry Morgan.

In the meantime he must answer something.  He could not pretend that the room was empty, for the light must be showing around the door.

“Harry!” called the voice of the girl again.  “Do you hear me?  Come out!  The chief wants you!” And she rattled the door.

Fear that she might open it and, stepping in, see the senseless figure on the floor, alarmed Ronicky.  He came close to the door.

“Well?” he demanded, keeping his voice deep, like the voice of Harry Morgan, as well as he could remember it.

“Hurry!  The chief, I tell you!”

He snapped out the light and turned resolutely to the door.  He felt his faithful Colt, and the feel of the butt was like the touch of a friendly hand before he opened the door.

She was dressed in white and made a glimmering figure in the darkness of the hall, and her hair glimmered, also, almost as if it possessed a light and a life of its own.  Ronicky Doone saw that she was a very pretty girl, indeed.  Yes, it must be Caroline Smith.  The very perfume of young girlhood breathed from her, and very sharply and suddenly he wondered why he should be here to fight the battle of Bill Gregg in this matter—­Bill Gregg who slept peacefully and stupidly in the room across the street!