feet from the street, an indentation which would completely hide him
from anyone who looked from the street. Ronicky made up his mind at
once. He went to the end of the block, crossed over and, turning back
on the far side of the street, slipped into the opening between the
houses.

Instantly he was in a dense darkness. For five stories above him the
two buildings towered, shutting out the starlight. Looking straight up
he found only a faint reflection of the glow of the city lights in the
sky.

At last he found a cellar window. He tried it and found it locked, but
a little maneuvering with his knife enabled him to turn the catch at
the top of the lower sash. Then he raised it slowly and leaned into
the blackness. Something incredibly soft, tenuous, clinging, pressed
at once against his face. He started back with a shudder and brushed
away the remnants of a big spider web.

Then he leaned in again. It was an intense blackness. The moment his
head was in the opening the sense of listening, which is ever in a
house, came to him. There were the strange, musty, underground odors
which go with cellars and make men think of death.

However, he must not stay here indefinitely. To be seen leaning in at
this window was as bad as to be seen in the house itself. He slipped
through the opening at once, and beneath his feet there was a soft
crunching of coal. He had come directly into the bin. Turning, he
closed the window, for that would be a definite clue to any one who
might pass down the alley.