An elevator whirled them upward; and in a few moments the young man from Chicago was opening a revolver case in his sample room. “It’s a Colt,” said he, calmly, holding the weapon up for his friend’s inspection. “Dull metal, forty-five calibre; has a barrel that assures accuracy and a grip that is a real grip. It’ll make quite a bulge in your pocket, but then it will also shoot a hole through a safe.” “For a humdrum man of trade, Garry, you have lots of romance left in you,” said Kenyon. He took the revolver and spun it around, a forefinger through the trigger guard. “You intend that an armed force shall move on Selden’s Square, I see. But where is your ammunition?” “Here,” and Webster handed him a dozen or more long cartridges. Two revolvers were loaded and shoved deep into overcoat pockets; then the two descended to the street, got into a cab and were driven to Selden’s Square. “Not a very live street, for so early an hour,” remarked Webster, as they alighted at the corner and walked slowly along. “I noticed that last night,” returned Kenyon, somewhat grimly. “The thugs who attacked the man outside of 98 did not seem to have any fear of interruption.” “By the way, you did not see anything of the attacked one when you came out, did you!” “No; those who committed the assault either carried him away, or the police found him before I came out.” They had reached 98 by this time and halted. It was gloomy and deserted looking; not a glimmer of light was to be seen at any of the windows. They ascended the steps and Kenyon pulled the old-fashioned bell-handle. “Speaking of policemen,” remarked Webster, in a low tone, “that looks like one across the way.” The gleam of the helmet plate and shield were unmistakable; but their owner made no move toward them, though he seemed to be watching them narrowly. Just then there came a sound at the basement door and a shuffling of feet up the steps. In a moment a sharp, wrinkled old face appeared above the rail and a quavering, high-pitched voice demanded: “What is it, please? What is it?” Kenyon looked down at the bent old woman who was peering up at him in a dim-eyed, uncertain sort of way. “I desire to speak to”--he hesitated a moment, then proceeded--“to the master or mistress of the house.” “Have I not told you a dozen times that the house is empty? Are the police paid to annoy people? I know nothing of those who were here; I know nothing of the dead man who was carried out in the night; I know nothing except that the agent placed me in charge this afternoon, and that the rent is fifty dollars a week, furnished. For anything else you must not ask me; I am old, and I must have my sleep.” And with that she went slowly and complainingly down the steps, and they heard the door close abruptly behind her. “They have gone,” said Kenyon.