Across corners, down quiet streets, and by purposed diagonals he
led them: still they dogged his footprints. So adroit were they
that only one experienced in the art could have realized their
watchfulness.
Shirley now turned a corner quickly, into an unusually deserted
thoroughfare, running with short steps, so as not to betray his
speed by the tracks. Before they had time to round the corner he
ran up the thinly blanketed steps of a private residence. Then
he backed, as swiftly down the stoop, and thus crablike, walked
across the street, down a dozen houses and backward still, up the
steps of another private dwelling. Inside the vestibule he hid
himself. The entry had strong wooden outside doors, and he tried
the strength of the hinges: they satisfied him. A dim light
burned behind the glass of the inner portal. He quietly
clambered up the door, and balanced himself on the wood which
gallantly stood the strain. Fortunately it did not come within
four feet of the high ceiling of the old fashioned house.
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