Once in the street Ronicky looked dubiously across at the opposite house.  He realized that more than an hour had passed since Caroline had left John Mark’s house.  What had happened to Ruth in that hour?  The front of the house was lighted in two or three windows, but those lights could tell him nothing.  From the inside of the house he could locate Ruth’s room again, but from the outside it was impossible for him to do it.

The whole house, of course, was thoroughly guarded against his attack, for attack they knew he would.  The only question was from what angle he would deliver his assault.  In that case, of course, the correct thing was to find the unexpected means.  But how could he outguess a band of trained criminals?  They would have foreseen far greater subtleties than any he could attempt.  They would be so keen that the best way to take them by surprise might be simply to step up to the house, ring the door bell and enter, if the door were opened.

The idea intrigued him at once.  They might be, and no doubt were, guarding every obscure cellar window, every skylight.  To trick them was impossible, but it was always possible to bluff any man—­even John Mark and his followers.

Straight across the street marched Ronicky Doone and up the steps of the opposite house and rang the bell—­not a timid ring, but two sharp pressures, such as would announce a man in a hurry, a brisk man who did not wish to be delayed.

He took only one precaution, pulling his hat down so that the black shadow of the brim would fall like a robber’s mask across the upper part of his face.  Then he waited, as a man both hurried and certain, turning a little away from the door, at an angle which still more effectually concealed him, while he tapped impatiently with one foot.

Presently the door opened, after he made certain that someone had looked out at him from the side window.  How much had they seen?  How much had they guessed as to the identity of this night visitor?  The softness of the opening of the door and the whisper of the wind, as it rushed into the hall beyond, were like a hiss of threatening secrecy.  And then, from the shadow of that meager opening a voice was saying:  “Who’s there?”

The very caution, however, reassured Ronicky Doone.  Had they suspected that it was he they would either have kept the door definitely closed, or else they would have flung it open and boldly invited him in.

“I want to see Harry Morgan—­quick!” he said and stepped close to the door.

At his bold approach the door was closed like the winking of an eye, until it was barely an inch ajar.

“Keep back!” came the warning through this small opening.  “Keep clear, bo!”

“Damnation!” exclaimed Ronicky.  “What’s the idea?  I want Harry, I tell you.”

“Harry ain’t here.”