It had a sinister look, and George, who is brave enough under all ordinary circumstances, was glad that his companion wore a badge and carried a whistle.  He was also relieved when he caught sight of the burly form of a policeman in the shadow of one of the doorways.  Yet the houses he saw before him were not so very different from those they had already passed.  His uneasiness could not have sprung from them.  They had even an air of positive respectability, as though inhabited by industrious workmen.  Then, what was it which made the close companionship of a member of the police so uncommonly welcome?  Was it a certain aspect of solitariness which clung to the block, or was it the sudden appearance here and there of strangely gliding figures, which no sooner loomed up against the snowy perspective, than they disappeared again in some unseen doorway?

“There’s a meeting on to-night, of the Associated Brotherhood of the Awl, the Plane and the Trowel (whatever that means), and it is the speaker we want to see; the man who is to address them promptly at ten o’clock.  Do you object to meetings?”

“Is this a secret one?”

“It wasn’t advertised.”

“Are we carpenters or masons that we can count on admittance?”

“I am a carpenter.  Don’t you think you can be a mason for the occasion?”

“I doubt it, but—­”

“Hush!  I must speak to this man.”

George stood back, and a few words passed between Sweetwater and a shadowy figure which seemed to have sprung up out of the sidewalk.

“Balked at the outset,” were the encouraging words with which the detective rejoined George.  “It seems that a pass-word is necessary, and my friend has been unable to get it.  Will the speaker pass out this way?” he inquired of the shadowy figure still lingering in their rear.

“He didn’t go in by it; yet I believe he’s safe enough inside,” was the muttered answer.

Sweetwater had no relish for disappointments of this character, but it was not long before he straightened up and allowed himself to exchange a few more words with this mysterious person.  These appeared to be of a more encouraging nature than the last, for it was not long before the detective returned with renewed alacrity to George, and, wheeling him about, began to retrace his steps to the corner.

“Are we going back?  Are you going to give up the job?” George asked.

“No; we’re going to take him from the rear.  There’s a break in the fence—­Oh, we’ll do very well.  Trust me.”

George laughed.  He was growing excited, but not altogether agreeably so.  He says that he has seen moments of more pleasant anticipation.  Evidently, my good husband is not cut out for detective work.