The lane was empty now, he was quite sure of that—­and there was no further sound from the window opposite.  He started forward once more—­only to halt again for the second time as abruptly as before, squeezing if possible even more closely against the wall.  Some one had turned into the lane from the sidewalk, and, walking hurriedly, choosing with evident precaution the exact centre of the alleyway, came toward him.

The man passed, his hurried stride a half run; and, a few feet beyond, halted at old Isaac’s side door.  From somewhere inside the old building Jimmie Dale’s ears caught the faint ringing of an electric bell; a long ring, followed in quick succession by three short ones—­then the repeated clicking of a latch, as though pulled by a cord from above, and the man passed in through the door, closing it behind him.

Jimmie Dale nodded to himself in the darkness.  It was a spring lock; the signal was one long ring and three short ones—­the Tocsin had not missed even those small details.  Also, Burton was late for his appointment, for that must have been Burton—­business such as old Isaac had in hand that night would have permitted the entrance of no other visitor but K. Wilmington Maddon’s private secretary.

He moved down the lane to the door, and tried it softly.  It was locked, of course.  The slim, tapering, sensitive fingers, whose tips were eyes and ears to Jimmie Dale, felt over the lock—­and a slender little steel instrument slipped into the keyhole.  A moment more and the catch was released, and the door, under his hand, began to open.  With it ajar, he paused, his eyes searching intently up and down the lane.  There was nothing, no sign of any one, no moving shadows now.  His gaze shifted to the window opposite.  Directly facing it now, with the dull reflection upon it from the lighted window of old Isaac’s den above his head, he could make out that it was open—­but that was all.

Once more he smiled—­a little tolerantly at himself this time.  Some one had been in the lane; some one had opened the window of his or her room in that tenement house across from him—­surely there was nothing surprising, unnatural, or even out of the commonplace in that.  He had been a little bit on edge himself, perhaps, and the sudden movement of that shadow, unexpected, had startled him for the moment, as, in all probability, the opening of the window had startled the skulking figure itself into action.

The door was open now.  He stepped noiselessly inside, and closed it noiselessly behind him.  He was in a narrow hall, where a few yards away, a light shone down a stairway at right angles to the hall itself.

“Rear door of pawnshop opens into hall, and exactly opposite very short flight of stairs leading directly to doorway of Isaac’s den above.  Ramshackle old place, low ceilings.  Isaac, when sitting in his den, can look down, and, by means of a transom over the rear door of the shop, see the customers as they enter from the street, while he also keeps an eye on his assistant.  Latter always locks up and leaves promptly at six o’clock—­” Jimmie Dale was subconsciously repeating to himself snatches from the Tocsin’s letter, which, as subconsciously in reading, he had memorised almost word for word.