a cigarette, as a cover for his design, were he spied upon by unsuspected
eyes. Cane under arm, hands cupped to shield a vesta's flame, he stopped
directly before the portico, turning his eyes askance to the shadowed
doorway; and made a discovery sufficiently startling to hold him spellbound
and, incidentally, to scorch his gloves before he thought to drop the
match.

The door of Number 9 stood ajar, a black interval an inch or so in width
showing between its edge and the jamb.

Suspicion and alarm set his wits a-tingle. More distinctly he recalled the
jarring bang, accompanied by the metallic click of the latch, when the girl
had shut herself in--and him out. Now, some person or persons had followed
her, neglecting the most obvious precaution of a householder. And why? Why
but because the intruders did not wish the sound of closing to be audible
to her--or those--within?

He reminded himself that it was all none of his affair, decided to pass on
and go his ways in peace, and impulsively, swinging about, marched straight
away for the unclosed door.

"'Old'ard, guvner!"

Kirkwood halted on the cry, faltering in indecision. Should he take the
plunge, or withdraw? Synchronously he was conscious that a man's figure
had detached itself from the shadows beneath the nearest portico and was
drawing nearer, with every indication of haste, to intercept him.

"'Ere now, guvner, yer mykin' a mistyke. You don't live 'ere."