CHAPTER XII
THE HIDDEN DOOR
HE ran swiftly west, past the house on the corner, past the areaway where he had secreted himself last night, into Park Avenue, always on the course taken by the limousine. And, when he came to Black's number, he saw the limousine drawn up, waiting. In the upper story of the small but expensive house lights burned. He pressed the electric button, sighing his relief. He was grimly determined to see the thing through. His resolution was stimulated by his memory of the queue, coiled like a serpent, watching to strike with fangs bearing the poison of degradation and death. Nora stood within reach of that, perhaps, was already its victim. So when the door was opened by a sleek serving-man, he did not hesitate.
"I must see Mr. Black."
The servant displayed a mild astonishment at his tone.
"I'm sorry, sir. Mr. Black is not at home."
The lights he had noticed upstairs and the limousine gave Garth confidence.
"Mr. Black," he said, "is the brother-in-law of the president of the Society for Social Justice."
The servant nodded.
