They make straight for the
shack in the corner of the yard, and in a minute more the fat one has
produced a key and is fumblin' with the red padlock.
She opens the door only far enough to let the slim one slip in, then
stands with her back against it, her eyes rollin' first one way and then
the other.
Two or three minutes the slim one was in there, then she slides out, the
door is locked, and she scuttles off towards the house, the wide one
waddlin' behind her.
"My word!" gasps the Lieutenant. "Right against the wing of your
factory, that shed is. And a bomb of that size would blow it into
match-wood."
"That's so," says I.
Course, we hadn't really seen any bomb; but, what with the odd notions of
them two females and the Lieutenant's panicky talk, I was feelin' almost
jumpy myself.
"A time-fuse, most likely," says he, "set for midnight. That should give
us several hours. We must find out who lives in that house."
"Ought to be simple," says I. "Come on."
We chases around the block and rings up the janitor of the flat buildin'.
He's a wrinkled, blear-eyed old pirate, just on his way to the corner
with a tin growler.
"Yah! You won't git in to sell him no books," says he, leerin' at us.
"Think so?" says I, displayin' a quarter temptin'.
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