I slipped the card in my pocket, and went out.  It was still daylight, but there was a long walk before me.  Chestnut Street was across the river, in the more aristocratic section.  I had hauled lumber there the first day of my work, and recalled its characteristics—­long rows of stone-front houses, with an occasional residence standing alone, set well back from the street.  It was dark enough when I got there, and began seeking the number.  I followed the block twice in uncertainty, so many of the houses were dark, but finally located the one I believed must be 108.  It was slightly back from the street, a large stone mansion, surrounded by a low coping of brick and with no light showing anywhere.  I was obliged to mount the front steps before I could assure myself this was the place.  The street was deserted, except for two men talking under the electric light at the corner, and the only sound arose from the passing of a surface car a block away.  The silence and loneliness got upon my nerves, but, without yielding, I followed the narrow cement walk around the corner of the house.  Here it was dark in the shadow of the wall, yet one window on the first floor exhibited a faint glow at the edge of a closely drawn curtain.  Encouraged slightly by this proof that the house was indeed occupied, I felt my way forward until I came to some stone steps, and a door.  I rapped on the wood three times, my nerves tingling from excitement.  There was a moment’s delay, so that I lifted my hand again, and then the door opened silently.  Within was like the black mouth of a cave, and I involuntarily took a step backward.

“This you, Craig?”

“Yes,” I answered, half recognizing the cautious voice.

“All right then—­come in.  There is nothing to fear, the floor is level.”

I stepped within, seeing nothing of the man, and the door was closed behind me.  The sharp click of the latch convinced me it was secured by a spring lock.

“Turn on the light,” said the voice at my side sharply.  Instantly an electric bulb glowed dazzling overhead, and I blinked, about half blinded by the sudden change.

CHAPTER II

THE CASE OF PHILIP HENLEY

It was a rather narrow hallway and, with the exception of a thick carpet underfoot, unfurnished.  Neale, appearing somewhat more slender in evening clothes, smiled at me genially, showing a gold-crowned tooth.

“Did not chance to hear your motor,” he said easily, taking a cigarette case from his vest pocket.  “You are a little late; what was it, tire trouble?”

“I came afoot,” I answered, not overly-cordial.  “It was farther across town than I supposed.”

“Well, you ’re here, and that is the main point.  Have a cigarette.  No?” as I shook my head.  “All right, there are cigars in the room yonder—­the second door to your left.”