After a brisk five minutes’ walk the two emerged upon a broad street crossing their path at right angles.  All the shops were closed except Stubbs the provision dealer’s and Dundon’s drug-store.  In the window of the apothecary a great purple jar, with a spray of gas jets behind it, was flaring on the darkness like a Bengal light.  Richard stopped at the provision store and made some purchases; a little further on he halted at a fruit stand, kept by an old crone, who had supplemented the feeble flicker of the corner street lamp with a pitch-pine torch, which cast a yellow bloom over her apples and turned them all into oranges.  She had real oranges, however, and Richard selected half a dozen, with a confused idea of providing the little Italians with some national fruit, though both children had been born in Stillwater.

Then the pair resumed their way, Peters acting as pioneer.  They soon passed beyond the region of sidewalks and curbstones, and began picking their steps through a narrow, humid lane, where the water lay in slimy pools, and the tenement houses on each side blotted out the faint starlight.  The night was sultry, and door and casement stood wide, making pits of darkness.  Few lights were visible, but a continuous hum of voices issued from the human hives, and now and then a transient red glow at an upper window showed that some one was smoking a pipe.  This was Mitchell’s Alley.

The shadows closed behind the two men as they moved forward, and neither was aware of the figure which had been discreetly following them for the last ten minutes.  If Richard had suddenly wheeled and gone back a dozen paces, he would have come face to face with the commercial traveler.

Mr. Peeters paused in front of one of the tenement houses, and motioned with his thumb over his shoulder for Richard to follow him through a yawning doorway.  The hall was as dark as a cave, and full of stale, moldy odors.  Peters shuffled cautiously along the bare boards until he kicked his toe against the first step of the staircase.

“Keep close to the wall, Mr. Shackford, and feel your way up.  They’ve used the banisters for kindling, and the landlord says he shan’t put in any more.  I went over here the other night,” added Mr. Peters reminiscentially.

After fumbling several seconds for the latch, Mr. Peters pushed open a door, and ushered Richard into a large, gloomy rear room.  A kerosene lamp was burning dimly on the mantel-shelf, over which hung a coarsely-colored lithograph of the Virgin in a pine frame.  Under the picture stood a small black crucifix.  There was little furniture,—­a cooking-stove, two or three stools, a broken table, and a chest of drawers.  On an iron bedstead in the corner lay Torrini, muffled to the chin in a blanket, despite the hot midsummer night.  His right arm, as if it were wholly disconnected with his body, rested in a splint on the outside of the covering.  As the visitors entered, a tall dusky woman with blurred eyes rose from a low bench at the foot of the bed.