“It's of no consequence.” Larmon's eyes were suddenly fastened on the window. From an already shabby street where cheap tenements hived a polyglot nationality, the taxi had swerved into an intersection that seemed more a lane than anything else, and that was still more shabby and uninviting. “This is a rather sordid neighborhood, isn't it?” he observed curiously. “It's safe,” said Crang significantly. The taxi stopped. “We get out here, Mr. Peters,” Crang announced pleasantly, as Birdie opened the door. “It's a bit rough, I'll admit; but”--he shrugged his shoulders and smiled--“you'll have to blame Bruce, not me. Just follow me, Mr. Peters--it's down these steps.” He began to descend the steps of a cellar entrance, which was unprepossessingly black, and which opened from the rear of a seedy looking building that abutted on the lane. He did not look behind him. Larmon had made _sure_ that the letter was to be relied upon, hadn't he?--and it was John Bruce, not anybody else, that Larmon was trusting now. Certainly, it was much easier to _lead_ Larmon as long as Larmon could be led; if Larmon hesitated about following, Birdie stood ready to pitch the other headlong down the steps--the same end would be attained in either case! But Larmon still showed no suspicion of the good faith of one William Anderson. He was following without question. The daylight streaking down through the entrance afforded enough light to enable Crang, over his shoulder, to note that Larmon was always close behind him. At a door across the cellar Crang gave two raps, three times repeated, and as the door was opened, entered with Larmon beside him. The man who had let them in--one of three, who had evidently been rolling dice at a table close to the entrance--closed the door behind them, and resumed his game. “If you'll just wait here a minute, Mr. Peters,” Crang said breezily, “I'll find Bruce for you.” He did not wait for a reply. It mattered very little as to what Larmon said or did now, anyhow--Larmon's exit was barred by three men! He walked up the length of the low-ceiled, evil-smelling place, and with a key which he took from his pocket unlocked a door at the farther end. As he stepped through the door his revolver was in his hand. He laughed in an ugly way, as John Bruce rose from the mattress and faced him. “Salt is a great thing, isn't it?” he jeered. He drew from his pocket the slip of paper he had cut from the bottom of the letter, and held it so that John Bruce could see it. Then he put it back in his pocket again. “Understand? He got the _rest_ of the letter, all right; and so he has come down to pay you a little visit. He's outside there now.” John Bruce made no answer. Crang laughed again.