"The headquarters of the Assassins," said Astro calmly, his hands in his overcoat pockets, studying the windows.
"And what next?" asked Valeska.
"We'll wait a while. Come into this next doorway."
On the side of the doorway they now entered was a sign, "Furnished Rooms." It was now after seven o'clock, and had begun to snow. Valeska stood inside the vestibule protected from the weather; Astro waited just outside watching the doorway of number 109. The Twenty-third Street cars clanged noisily by, the din of the traffic muffled by the carpet of snow. The open mouth of the subway sucked in an unsteady stream of wayfarers.
Suddenly Valeska put her hand on Astro's arm. "Does it begin with 'C-o'?" she asked.
He smiled. "No, 'C-a,'" he answered.
"Oh, dear, I thought I had it! But don't tell me! I'm sure I'll work it out, though. But it makes me anxious. Anything might happen on a night like this!"
"Yes, even an assasination."
"You don't fear that, really?" She looked at him in alarm.
"But I do,—assassination of a sort. What else could the letter mean?"
She had not time to answer before the door of the next house opened, and a man buttoned up in a fur-trimmed overcoat came out. He stopped a moment to raise an umbrella, and they could see that he was a stout pasty-faced German of some fifty years, with a curling yellow mustache. He wore spectacles and seemed to be near-sighted.
