Curtis and Kelson spent the rest of the day indoors; and at night sallied forth to Hamar’s.

The solitary attic—­if one could thus designate a space of about three square feet—­which comprised Hamar’s lodging—­had the advantage of being situated in the top storey of a skyscraper—­at least a skyscraper for that part of the city.  From its window could be seen, high above the serried ranks of chimney-pots on the opposite side of the street, those two newly erected buildings:  William Carman’s chewing gum factory in Hearnes Street, and Mark Goddard’s eight-storied private residence in Van Ness Avenue; and, as if this were not enough architectural grace for the eye to dwell on, glimmering away to the right was the needle-like spire of Moss Bates’s devil-dodging establishment in Branman Street; whilst, just behind it, in saucy mocking impudence, peeped out the gilded roof of the Knee Brothers’ recently erected Cinematograph Palace.

All this and more—­much more—­was to be seen from Hamar’s outlook, and all for the sum of one dollar and a half per week.  When Curtis and Kelson entered, the room was aglow with moonlight, and Hamar and the black cat were stealthily regarding one another from opposite corners of the room.  From far away—­from somewhere in the very base of the building, came the dull echo of a shout, succeeded by the violent slamming of a door; whilst from outside, from one of the many deserted thoroughfares below, rose the frightened cry of a fugitive woman.  Otherwise all was comparatively still.

“You’re a bit early!” was Hamar’s greeting, “but better that than late.  Everything is ready, and all we’ve got to do is to wait till twelve.  Sit down.”

They did as they were bid.  Presently the cat, forsaking its sanctuary, and ignoring Curtis’s solicitations, glided across the floor, and climbing on to Kelson’s knee, refused to budge.  The trio sat in silence till a few minutes before midnight, when Hamar rose, and, selecting a spot where the moonbeams lay thickest, placed thereon the tub of water, in which—­with its face uppermost—­he proceeded to float a small mirror, set in a cheap wooden frame.  He then calmly produced a pocket knife.

“What’s that for?” Kelson inquired nervously.

“Blood!” Hamar responded.  “One of us must spare three drops.  The conditions demand it—­and after all the ham and sausages you two have eaten I think one of you can spare it best.  Which of you shall it be?  Come, there’s no time to lose!”

“Matt has more blood than I have!” Curtis growled; “but why not the cat?”

“It would spoil our chances with it for the other experiment,” Hamar said.  “It’s a sulky, cross-grained brute, and would give us no end of trouble.  Besides it can bite.  Look here, let’s draw lots!”

Curtis and Kelson were inclined to demur; but the proposed method was so in accordance with custom that there really did not seem any feasible objection to raise to it.  Accordingly lots were drawn—­and Hamar himself was the victim.  Curtis laughed coarsely, and Kelson hid his smiles in the cat’s coat.  A neighbouring clock now began to strike twelve.