Inside an hour O'Mally, Babbitts and I were on our way to Philadelphia. All friction¹ was forgotten, a bigger issue had extinguished the sparks that had come near bursting into flame. A mutual² desire united us, the finding of Barker.  
The train, an express, seemed to crawl like a tortoise, but the way I felt I guess the flight of an aëroplane would have been slow. I had hideous³ fears that he might give us the slip, but O'Mally was confident. One of his men had got a lead on Barker through a vendor⁴ of newspapers, from whom the capitalist twice in the last week had purchased the big New York dailies. It had taken several days to locate his place of hiding—a quiet boarding house far removed from the center of the city—which was now under surveillance. As we swung through the night, shut close in a smoke-filled compartment⁵, we speculated as to whether he would try and throw a bluff⁶ or see the game was up and tell the truth.
 
At the station O'Mally's man met us and the four of us piled into a taxi, and started on a run across town. It was moonlight, and going down those quiet streets, lined with big houses and then with little houses—still, dwindling⁷ vistas⁸ sleeping in the silver radiance—seemed to me the longest drive I'd ever taken in my life. As we sped the detective gave us further particulars. By his instructions the newsstand man, who left the morning papers at the boarding house, had got into communication with the servant, a colored girl. From her he had learnt that Barker—he passed under the name of Joseph Sammis—had been away for twenty-four hours and had come back that morning so ill that a doctor had been called in. The doctor had said the man's heart was weak, and that his condition looked like the result of strain or shock. Questioned further the girl had said he was "A pleasant, civil-spoken old gentleman, giving no trouble to anybody." He went out very little, sitting in his room most of the time reading the papers. He received no mail there, but that he did get letters she had found out, as she had seen one on his table addressed to the General Delivery.
 
The house was on a street, quiet and deserted⁹ at this early hour, one of a row all built alike. As we climbed out of the taxi the moon was bright, the shadows lying like black velvet¹⁰ across the lonely roadway. On the opposite side, loitering slow, was a man, who, raising a hand to his hat, passed on into the darkness along the area railings. Though it was only a little after nine, many of the houses showed the blankness of unlit windows, but in the place where we had stopped a fan-light over the door glowed in a yellow semicircle.
 
As the taxi moved off we three—O'Mally's detective slipped away into the shadow like a ghost—walked up a little path to the front door where I pulled an old-fashioned bell handle. I could hear the sound go jingling¹¹ through the hall, loud and cracked, and then steps, languid and dragging, come from somewhere in the rear. I was to act as spokesman, my cue being to ask for Mr. Sammis on a matter of urgent business.
 
The door was opened by the colored girl, who looked at us stupidly and then said she'd call Miss Graves, the landlady¹², as she didn't think anyone could see Mr. Sammis.
 
Standing¹³ back from the door she let us into a hall with a hatrack on one side and a flight of stairs going up at the back. The light was dim, coming from a globe held aloft by a figure that crowned the newel post. The paper on the walls, some dark striped pattern, seemed to absorb what little radiance there was and the whole place smelled musty and was as quiet as a church.
 
The colored girl had disappeared down a long passage and presently a door opened back there and a woman came out, tall and thin, in a skimpy black dress. She approached us as we stood in a group by the hatrack, leaning forward near-sightedly and blinking at us through silver-rimmed spectacles.
 
"My maid says you want to see Mr. Sammis," she said, in an unamiable voice.
 
"Yes," I answered. "We've come from New York and it's imperative¹⁴ we see him this evening."
 
"But you can't," she snapped. "He's sick. The doctor says he mustn't be disturbed."
 
Talking it over afterward¹⁵ we all confessed that we were seized by the same idea—that this lanky¹⁶ old spinster might be in the game and Barker's illness was a fake. Feeling as I did I was ready to leap forward, grab her, and lock her in her own parlor¹⁷ while the others chased up the stairs. I could sense the slight, uneasy stir of the two men beside me, and I tried to inject a determination into my voice, that while it was civil was also informing:
 
"I'm sorry, but it's absolutely necessary that we transact¹⁸ our business with him now."
 
"Can't you give me a message?" she demurred¹⁹, squinting²⁰ her eyes up behind the glasses. "I'll see that it's delivered in the morning."
 
"No, Madam. This is important and can't wait. We won't be long, we only have to consult with him for a few minutes."
 
She gave a shrug²¹ as much as to say, "Well, this is your affair!" and, drawing back, pointed²² to the stairs.
 
"He's up there, fourth floor front, second door to your left."
 
To each of us the suspicion that she was in with Barker had grown with every minute. The idea once lodged²³ in our minds, possessed²⁴ them, and we went up those stairs, slow at first, and then, as we got out of earshot, faster and faster. It was a run on the second flight and a gallop²⁵ on the third. On this landing there was no gas lit, but a window at the end of the passage let in a square of moonlight that lay bright on the floor and showed us the hall's dim length and the outlines of closed doors.
 
It was the second of these, on the left-hand side, and creeping toward it we stood for a moment getting our wind. The place was very cold, as if a window was open, and there was not a sound. Standing by the door O'Mally knocked softly. There was no answer.
 
In that half-lit passage, chilled with the icy breath of the winter night and held in a strange stillness, I was seized by a grisly sense of impending²⁶ horror. If I'd been a small boy my teeth would have begun to chatter²⁷. At thirty years of age that doesn't happen, but I doubt whether anyone whose body was supplied with an ordinarily active nervous system would not have felt something sinister²⁸ in that cold, dark place, in the silence behind that close-shut door.
 
O'Mally knocked again and again; there was no answer.
 
"Try it," I whispered and the detective turned the handle.
 
"Locked," he breathed back, then—"Stand away there. I'm going to break it. There's something wrong here."
 
He turned sideways, bracing²⁹ his shoulder against the door. There was a cracking sound, and the lock, embedded³⁰ in old soft wood, gave way, the door swinging in with O'Mally hanging to the handle.
 
The room was unlit but for the silver moonlight that came from the window, uncurtained and open. At that sight the same thought seized the three of us—the man was gone—and O'Mally, fumbling³¹ in his pocket for matches, broke into furious profanity.
 
I had a box and as I dug round for it, took a look about, and saw the shapes of a chair with garments hanging over it, an open desk, and, against the opposite wall, the bed. It was only a pale oblong, and looked irregular, as if the clothes were heaped on it as the man had thrown them back. I could have joined O'Mally in his swearing. Gone—when our fingers were closing on him! Then I found the matches and the gas burst out over our heads.
 
My eye............