“You've no overcoat,” said Corson. “We'll stop and get one. I'll have mine from the station.” The silence of the house of mystery was no less threatening now than on the night when Henry Wilton was walking through the halls on the way to his death. But the stout-hearted policeman by my side gave me confidence, and no sign showed the presence of an enemy as I secured Henry's heavy overcoat and the large revolver he had given me, and we took our way down the stairs. A short visit to the grimy, foul-smelling basement of the City Hall, where a few policemen looked at me wonderingly, a brisk walk with the cutting wind at our backs and the fog currents hurrying and whirling in eddies toward the bay, and I felt rather than saw that we were in the neighborhood of the scene of my adventures of a night that had come so near costing me my life. I could not be certain of my bearings, but I trusted to the unconscious guidance of Corson, with a confused idea that we were bearing away from the place. Then with relief combined with bewilderment, I saw the lantern sign give forth its promise of the varied entertainment that could be had at Borton's. “Here we are,” said Corson. We pushed open the door and entered. The place had the same appearance as the one to which I had been taken by Dicky Nahl. “A fine night, Mother Borton,” said Corson cheerily, as he was the first to enter, and then added under his breath, “--for the divil's business.” Mother Borton stared at him with a black look and muttered a curse. “Good evening,” I hastened to say. “I took the liberty to bring a friend; he doesn't come as an officer to-night.” The effect on the hag's features was marvelous. The black scowl lightened, the tight-drawn lips relaxed, and there was a sign of pleasure in the bright eyes that had flashed hatred at the policeman. “Ah, it's you, is it?” she said sharply, but with a tone of kindness in her greeting. “I didn't see ye. Now sit down and find a table, and I'll be with ye after a bit.” “We want a dinner, and a good one. I'm half-starved.” “Are ye, honey?” said the woman with delight. “Then it's the best dinner in town ye shall have. Here, Jim! Put these gentlemen over there at the corner table.” And if the cooking was not what we could have had at the Maison Dorée and the service was a little off color, neither of us was disposed to be critical. “It's not the aristocracy of stoile ye get here,” said Corson, lighting his pipe after the coffee, “but it's prime eating.” I nodded in lazy contentment, and then started up in remembrance of the occasion of our being in this place as the shadow of Mother Borton fell across the table. Her keen eyes fixed on me and her sharp beak nodding toward me gave her the uncanny aspect of a bird of prey, and I felt a sinking of courage as I met her glance. “If you will go upstairs,” she said sourly. “You know the way. I guess your friend can spare you.” “Is there anything that can't be told before him?” I asked.