When Martha, on her return from Stephen's, had climbed the dimly lighted stairs leading to her apartment, she ran against a thick-set man, in brown clothes and derby hat, seated on the top step.

He had interviewed the faded old wreck who served as janitress and, learning that Mrs.
Munger would be back any minute, had taken this method of being within touching distance when the good woman unlocked her door.

She might decide to leave him outside its panels while she got in her fine work of hiding the thing he had climbed up three flights of stairs to find.

In that case, a twist of his foot between the door and the jamb would block the game.
"Are you the man who has been waiting for me ?" she exclaimed, as the detective's big frame became discernible under the faint rays from the "Paul Pry" skylight.
"Yes, if you are the woman who is living with Mrs.Stanton." He had risen to his feet and had moved toward the door.
"I'm Mrs.Munger, if that's who you are looking for, and we live together.

She's not back yet, so the woman down-stairs has just told me.
Are you from Rosenthal's ?" "I am." He had edged nearer, his fingers within reach of the knob, his lids narrowing as he studied her face and movements.
"Did they find the lace--the mantilla ?" "Not as I heard," he answered, noting her anxiety.