should be satisfied that Larry the Bat had gone home.  It was the line of least resistance; they would not attempt to scour the city for him.  They might even wait in that private room at Bristol Bob’s until they decided that it was time to sally out.  He might perhaps still find them there when he got back; at any rate, from there he must pick up their trail again.  On the other hand—­all this was but supposition—­they might make at once for the Sanctuary to lie in wait for him.  In any case there was need, desperate need, for haste.

He glanced sharply around him; and, by the side of the tenement house now that bordered on the alleyway, with a curious, swift, gliding motion, he seemed to blend into the shadow and darkness.  It was the Sanctuary, that room on the first floor of the tenement, the tenement that had three entrances, three exits—­a passageway through to the saloon on the next street that abutted on the rear, the usual front door, and the side door in the alleyway.  Gone was the shuffling gait.  Quick, alert, he ran, crouching, bent down, along the alleyway, reached the side door, opened it stealthily, closed it behind him with equal caution, and, in the dark entry, stood motionless, listening intently.

There was no sound.  He began to mount the rickety, dilapidated stairs; and, where it seemed that the lightest tread must make them creak out in blatant protest, his trained muscles, delicately compensating his body weight, carried him upward with a silence that was almost uncanny.  There was need of silence, as there was need of haste.  He was not so sure now of the time at his disposal—­that he had even reached the Sanctuary first. How long had he loitered in that half-dazed way on the Bowery?  He did not know—­perhaps longer than he had imagined.  There was the possibility that Whitey Mack and Lannigan were already above, waiting for him; but, even if they were not already there and he got away before they came, it was imperative that no one should know that Larry the Bat had come and gone.

He reached the landing, and paused again, his right hand, with a vicious muzzle of his automatic peeping now from between his fingers, thrown a little forward.  It was black, utterly black, around him.  Again that stealthy, catlike tread—­and his ear was at the keyhole of the Sanctuary door.  A full minute, priceless though it was, passed; then, satisfied that the room was empty, he drew his head back from the keyhole, and those slim, tapering fingers, that in their tips seemed to embody all the human senses, felt over the lock.  Apparently it had been undisturbed; but that was no proof that Whitey Mack had not been there after finding the metal case.  Whitey Mack was known to be clever with a lock—­clever enough for that, anyhow.

He slipped in the key, turned it, and, on hinges that were always oiled, silently pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold.  He closed the door until it was just ajar, that any sound might reach him from without—­and, whipping off his coat, began to undress swiftly.