Twenty minutes were wasted along the block, as he waited for some
sight or sign. Then he decided to go on up to Van Cleft's
residence. But, realizing the probability of "shadow" work upon
all who came from the door of the club, after the curious message
on the wire, Shirley did not propose to expose his hand. Walking
leisurely to the Avenue, he hailed a passing hansom. He directed
the driver to carry him to an address on Central Park West. His
shrewdness was not wasted, for as he stepped into the vehicle, he
espied a slinking figure crossing the street diagonally before
him, to disappear into the shadow of an adjacent doorway. This
was the house of Reginald Van Der Voor, as Shirley knew. It was
closed because its master, a social acquaintance of the club
man's, was at this time touring the Orient in his steam yacht.
No man should have entered that doorway. So, as the horse
started under the flick of the long whip, Shirley peered
unobserved through the glass window at his side.
A big machine swung up behind the hansom, at some unseen hail,
and the figure came from the doorway, leaping into the car, as it
followed Shirley up the Avenue, a block or so behind.
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