"There are no commercial vehicles out at this hour," added Garrick
dryly.

At last our cab turned down a street that was particularly dark.

"This is it," announced Garrick, tapping on the glass for the
driver to stop at the corner. "We had better get out and walk the
rest of the way."

The garage which we sought proved to be nothing but an old brick
stable. It was of such a character that even charity could not
have said that it had seen much better days for generations. It
was dark, evil looking. Except for a slinking figure here and
there in the distance the street about us was deserted. Even our
footfalls echoed and Garrick warned us to tread softly. I longed
for the big stick, that went with the other half of the phrase.

He paused a moment to observe the place. It was near the corner
and a dim-lighted Raines law saloon on the next cross street ran
back almost squarely to the stable walls, leaving a narrow yard.
Apparently the garage itself had been closed for the night, if,
indeed, it was ever regularly open. Anyone who wanted to use it
must have carried a key, I surmised.

We crossed over stealthily. Garrick put his ear to an ordinary
sized door which had been cut out of the big double swinging doors
of the stable, and listened.

Not a sound.