the light would not be switched on. The next sound that came to him was a sigh, and then the faint stir and rustle of cloth. Kestner knew the man was taking off his wet overcoat and hanging it across the banister-rail. On it, he knew, that the man was next balancing his rainsoaked hat. Then the steps went slowly and stealthily up the stairway.
Kestner waited until they took the turn at the head of the stairs. Then he reached over and examined the wet hat, gauging its dimensions with his distended fingers, sniffing at it as a hound might. Then he felt quickly through the dripping raincoat, attempting to verify the disquieting suspicion that the newcomer was indeed Morello. But the overcoat held nothing to confirm this fear.
Kestner no longer hesitated. He felt his way about the newel-post, creeping up the stairs as quietly as the man who had preceded him. Looking up, at the first turn, he was able to make out a faint glimmer of light falling across the well of the stairway on the floor still one flight above him. So he crept on, his rubber-soled feet deadening the sound of his steps.
He drew up, suddenly, as his head reached the level of this second floor, for blocked out against the oblong of light in a partly opened door he could see the figure of the newcomer. And it took no second glance to tell him that it was indeed Morello—Morello who by that hour should have been well on his way to Washington.
Something suspended and guarded in the pose of that figure told Kestner that within the lighted room was a third person, and that the movements of this third person were being watched by Morello. And
