Blindfolded | Page 5

occasional
creaking board told me of his progress down the stairs. He had
evidently had some practice in getting about quietly. I could only
wonder, as I closed and locked the door, whether it was the police or a
private enemy that he was trying to avoid.
I had small time to speculate on the possibilities, for outside the
window I heard the single word, "Help!"
The cry was half-smothered, and followed by a gurgling sound and
noise as of a scuffle in the alley.
I rushed to the window and looked out. A band of half a dozen men
was struggling and pushing away from Montgomery Street into the
darker end of the alley. They were nearly under the window.
"Give it to him," said a voice.
In an instant there came a scream, so freighted with agony that it burst
the bonds of gripping fingers and smothering palms that tried to close it
in, and rose for the fraction of a second on the foul air of the alley.
Then a light showed and a tall, broad-shouldered figure leaped back.
"These aren't the papers," it hissed. "Curse on you, you've got the
wrong man!"

There was a moment's confusion, and the light flashed on the man who
had spoken and was gone. But that flash had shown me the face of a
man I could never forget--a man whose destiny was bound up for a
brief period with mine, and whose wicked plans have proved the master
influence of my life. It was a strong, cruel, wolfish face--the face of a
man near sixty, with a fierce yellow-gray mustache and imperial--a face
broad at the temples and tapering down into a firm, unyielding jaw, and
marked then with all the lines of rage, hatred, and chagrin at the failure
of his plans.
It took not a second for me to see and hear and know all this, for the
vision came and was gone in the dropping of an eyelid. And then there
echoed through the alley loud cries of "Police! Murder! Help!" I was
conscious that there was a man running through the hall and down the
rickety stairs, making the building ring to the same cries. My own
feelings were those of overmastering fear for my friend. He had gone
on his mysterious, dangerous errand, and I felt that it was he who had
been dragged into the alley, and stabbed, perhaps to death. Yet it
seemed I could make no effort, nor rouse myself from the stupor of
terror into which I was thrown by the scene I had witnessed.
It was thus with a feeling of surprise that I found myself in the street,
and came to know that the cries for help had come from me, and that I
was the man who had run through the hall and down the stairs shouting
for the police.
Singularly enough there was no crowd to be seen, and no excitement
anywhere. Some one was playing a wheezy melodeon in the saloon,
and men were singing a drunken song. The alley was dark, and I could
see no one in its depths. The house through which I had flown shouting
was now silent, and if any one on the street had heard me he had
hurried on and closed his ears, lest evil befall him. Fortunately the
policeman on the beat was at hand, and I hailed him excitedly.
"Only rolling a drunk," he said lightly, as I told of what I had seen.
"No, it's worse than that," I insisted. "There was murder done, and I'm
afraid it's my friend."

He listened more attentively as I told him how Henry had left the house
just before the cry for help had risen.
The policeman took me by the shoulders, turned me to the gaslight, and
looked in my face.
"Excuse me, sor," he said. "I see you're not one of that kind. Some of
'em learns it from the blitherin' Chaneymen."
I was mystified at the moment, but I found later that he suspected me of
having had an opium dream. The house, I learned, was frequented by
the "opium fiends," as they figure in police slang.
"It's a nasty place," he continued. "It's lucky I've got a light." He
brought up a dark lantern from his overcoat pocket, and stood in the
shelter of the building as he lighted it. "There's not many as carries
'em," he continued, "but they're mighty handy at times."
We made our way to the point beneath the window, where the men had
stood.
There was nothing to be seen--no sign of struggle, no shred of torn
clothing, no drop of blood. Body, traces and all had disappeared.
CHAPTER III
A QUESTION IN THE NIGHT
I was stricken dumb at this