XX A CONFESSION

XXI CARROLL DECIDES

XXII THE PROBLEM IS SOLVED





CHAPTER I

OUT OF THE STORM


Taxicab No. 92,381 skidded crazily on the icy pavement of Atlantic
Avenue. Spike Walters, its driver, cursed roundly as he applied the
brakes and with difficulty obtained control of the little closed car.
Depressing the clutch pedal, he negotiated the frozen thoroughfare and
parked his car in the lee of the enormous Union Station, which bulked
forbiddingly in the December midnight.

Atlantic Avenue was deserted. The lights at the main entrance of the
Union Station glowed frigidly. Opposite, a single arc-lamp on the corner
of Cypress Street cast a white, cheerless light on the gelid pavement.
The few stores along the avenue were dark, with the exception of the
warmly lighted White Star restaurant directly opposite the Stygian spot
where Spike's car was parked.

The city was in the grip of the first cold wave of the year. For two days