WHITEWASH
go to sleep. He undressed recklessly, throwing his garments, or leaving them where they dropped, secured his door, took a final swig of whiskey, and after turning off the gas, tumbled into bed.
The night wore on. The last patron was turned out, the last bolt fastened. Madame Guisard had removed all the pins in her edifice of hair and lace. Gustave had neatly plaited the napkins for the next day's tables, and Hortense, candle in hand, had yawned her way to her little attic cubby-hole.
The outer world, too, had gone to rest. Only the cats now crawled and fought along the gutters and on the narrow fence-tops. At intervals the bells of the little French church rang out the hour, which the Skye terrier of the lady opposite heralded with a shrill howl. Even the distant buzz of the elevated was stilled.
Valdeck slept heavily. The stroke of two still hung vibrating in the air. when the communicating door between 12 and 14 opened slowly.
The light burned brightly in the woman's room and showed her dark form sharply. In her hand she carried a ring and skeleton keys. She paused
