The woman hesitated, for she was at a ticklish disadvantage. The surprise of the detective's visit was too complete to give her any opportunity to warn Don Haskins who waited in the vile little room on the third floor for his new wardrobe. On the stairs leading to the top story there was concealed a very cunning little device that in six years of hiding hunted men for pay had not once been detected by the police. Two of the steps, by a simple mechanical operation, could be jerked upward into an opening large enough to admit a man's body. Below this was space large enough to accommodate several persons, the steps then dropped back into place, looking thoroughly innocent. But Haskins had not been given the secret of the third-floor stairs, and now there would be no opportunity to favor him with this belated knowledge. "I'll run right up an' tell Mr. Smith to come down," said the old hag. "Say," sneered Sergeant Tish, "do I look that easy? On the level, do you think I'd fall for that stuff?" It angered him that she should have so little regard for his intelligence. "What floor did you say?" He unbuttoned his coat which fitted somewhat tightly across his ample stomach, giving him freer access to his police automatic strapped beneath his arm. Eighth Avenue Annie had not lived in the underworld for nothing; she knew the ways of the cops. She knew, for example, that the first overt move she made to protect her well-paying lodger would land her in jail on a charge of aiding and abetting a criminal. She wanted to help Haskins, not from any motive of sentiment, but because she expected to garner further money from Don's "swell sister," as she supposed Helen Gilmore to be. "I didn't say what floor, off'cer," she muttered, "but I'm sayin' now. He's on the thoid. I ain't protectin' nobody that ain't right." She tried to affect a virtuous attitude. "I dunno nothin' except he spiels it to me his moniker is--um--Smith." "Lead the way," ordered Sergeant Tish. "Not a word outta you either. Get me? No tip-off goes with me; try that, and it's the station for yours. If you think I won't, try it." Evidently Tish had not been deceived in the slightest by her attitude of innocence. "You go on up them stairs just like you was bringin' back his new duds. You say, 'Here's your clothes, mister.' I guess we won't use the Smith racket, either. His name ain't Smith, and you know it ain't." "Yes, off'cer," agreed Eighth Avenue Annie. "Not so loud with that officer talk," warned Tish. "Ease down on the lung power, you. Now, let's go." He motioned to the bundle she had just brought in from Abramson's, and she obediently picked it up, starting up the dank, musty stairs. The detective followed, walking with surprising lightness of step for so corpulent a man. They reached the second-floor landing and passed around a bend in the hall to the next flight. There was no hope for Don Haskins now.