Gazing through the window, Sam saw a mass of debris; old cans, ashes and the like were scattered in the center of the court or alley, while on both sides, near the buildings, a narrow board walk was laid.

Now, Sam knew that when he entered the place he was on the right-hand side, immediately behind his game.

If they had crossed over to the side on which the beer vault stood, the crunching of the ashes or the noise of the old cans, which would be very apt to be moved, would have advised him of that fact.

Putting these facts together, Sam was almost certain that they had not entered the beer cellar.

Just opposite stood a half-open door, which, flush with the court, would have accounted for the sudden disappearance of the men if they had turned suddenly and entered it.  These observations were made by the detective while he was engaged in a lively and pungent conversation with the burly bar-keeper.

The saloon made a good post of observation, and Sam settled himself for an all-day patron if necessary.  Taking a seat near the window, he called for a glass of beer, and tilting back his chair took a careful survey of the premises.

The alley was what is termed a “blind alley.”  On each side were low doors entering the basements of the houses, and the population consisted of rag-pickers, second-hand clothiers and one pawnshop.  It was just such a place as one would expect to meet the lowest types of humanity.  Dirty children were playing in the half-deserted place, their blue lips and pinched faces speaking eloquently of their poverty.  Italian hand-organ grinders were sitting on their door-steps, and slatternly women were leaning from their windows, exchanging gossip in loud, shrill tones.  Occasionally a man would walk hurriedly up the narrow walk, carrying a suspicious bundle, and eyeing nervously every person he might meet, dodging suddenly into some one of the doors.  All this Sam saw, but his eyes seldom left the half-open door immediately opposite.

He had been at his post nearly an hour, smoking a cigar or supping his liquor, the bar-keeper not caring what his customer did or what he was, so long as he ordered and paid for an occasional drink, when there appeared at the door of the house which the detective was so closely watching a tall, dark-complexioned woman.  Her eyes, strikingly brilliant, swept the place, but the shadows of the beer-cellar prevented her seeing the interested person who noted every movement she made.  The woman, after gazing up and down the court, threw her shawl over her head, and with long, gliding steps, walked toward the street.

The bar-keeper who was standing beside Sam, as the female passed down the court, said with an outward jerk of his thumb: 

“Rum old gal that.”

“Friend of yours?” lazily inquired the detective.

“Naw.  I don’t have nothin’ to do with her, nor she with me.  She’s a fortune-teller, she is.”