of the service alley.

"My God!" he exclaimed aloud. "My God!" He feared to find a crushed and
broken little body at the foot of those steep iron ladders. It seemed
impossible for such a frail and aged woman to have, unaided, made her
way down the sides of that inky precipice. "Good Lord!" he exclaimed
again, "if only she isn't killed!" He stood looking out, leaning as far
over the iron railing as he dared, waiting till his eyes should become
accustomed to the darkness. Gradually the details of the structure
became clear to his vision. No ominous dark mass took shape on the
pavement, far beneath. He could vaguely make out the contours of an ash
can or two and an abandoned wheelbarrow. But the alley from end to end
held no human form. She had succeeded in making her escape! Then at all
costs he must find her; and the police must not get hold of her. The
evidence of the clippings, her angry words as she prepared to attack
Mrs. Marteen--all outlined a possible solution to the tragedy in
Washington Square.

He hesitated a moment. His first impulse was to descend the fire escapes
in turn and look below for further trace of her going. But he realized
that he could reach the alley quicker by going through the house. He
cursed himself for a careless fool. How could he have allowed this to
happen!

He turned quickly, intent on losing no further moments, when he was
frozen into immobility by a sound, the most curiously unexpected of all
sounds--a laugh, a faint treble chuckle! It seemed to come from the
outer air, from nowhere, to hang suspended in the damp air of the shaft.
It was eerie, ghostly. Was the spirit of the dead man laughing at his
folly? The detective stepped back on the grating, flattening himself