"Den I'll go back and git orders from
Phil."
This habit of thinking aloud was expensive. Shirley stiffly but
noiselessly slid down the steps, as he disappeared in the
thickening snowfall. The criminologist slowly crossed the
street, and sheltered himself in a basement entrance, from which
he reversed the shadowing process. The twain hesitated before the
first house, then one came up the sidewalk, as the other stood his
ground. This man passed within a few feet of Shirley, who followed
him over to Madison Avenue, then north to Fifty-fifth Street. Here
he turned west, and turned into one of the old stables, formerly
used by the gentry of the exclusive section for their blooded
steeds. Into one building, which announced its identity as "Garage"
with its glittering electric sign, the man disappeared.
Shirley paused, looked about him, and chuckled. For he knew that
through the block on Fifty-sixth Street was the tall apartment
building, known as the Somerset--the address given him by
Reginald Warren.
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