He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch—self-winding, shockproof, non-magnetic; the man in the hotel's jewelry shop had assured him only yesterday that he could depend on its time-keeping as on the beating of his heart. It was nearly a quarter of one.
"Come along, come along!" grumbled Harse.
Mooney stalled: "I—I think we'd better go along this way. It ought to be down there—"
He cursed himself. Why hadn't he gone in the main entrance, where there was sure to be a cop? Harse would never have known the difference. But there was the artist in him that wanted the thing done perfectly, and so he had held to the pretense of avoiding police, had skulked and hidden. And now—
"Look!" he whispered, pointing.
Harse spat soundlessly and turned his eyes where Mooney was pointing.
Yes. Under
