metallic accuracy of a player-piano, and through the open window we could hear—or feel—the throb of the Cannonball's engine.
"Well, Sherlock," McKnight said, "what's the next move in the game? Is it our jump, or theirs? You brought us here."
None of us knew just what to do next. No sound of conversation penetrated the heavy doors. We waited uneasily for some minutes, and Hotchkiss looked at his watch. Then he put it to his ear.
"Good gracious!" he exclaimed, his head cocked on one side, "I believe it has stopped. I'm afraid we are late."
We were late. My watch and Hotchkiss' agreed at nine o'clock, and, with the discovery that our man might have come and gone, our zest in the adventure began to flag. McKnight motioned us away from the door and rang the bell. There was no response, no sound within. He rang it twice, the last time long and vigorously, without result. Then he turned and looked at us.
"I don't half like this," he said. "That
