Big Tom parked two blocks from the house, down the boulevard where there were a liquor store and a drugstore, both open, and a closed barbershop and shoeshine stand. He parked his car out of the direct light, went into the drugstore, and looked around, walked out quickly, went briskly away down the dark sidewalk to the cross street. He strolled uphill, eyes and ears alert. When he finally got within sight of the Havermann house and saw all the lights in it, he was filled with a ravaging disappointment. It had all the signs of a four-bell alarm.

Still he continued, drawn by bitter frustration, and walked on past. He had expected to see cars in the driveway, indications that the police were there, but it all seemed quiet enough. Not a soul moved in the grounds.

A full-fledged conviction had come into his mind that Skip and his friend had moved in early, forestalling him, had botched it and been discovered by the old woman. Now he wasn’t so sure.

On an impulse he ducked into the heavy shrubbery bordering the drive, crouched there, waited. He could hear a dog barking in the distance, perhaps inside the house. There was no other sound at all. He pushed further into the shrubs and came out into a sort of lane, overhung by dusty evergreens and ditched for irrigation purposes, which led up directly to the house. Big Tom stole forward, careful to make no noise, and in a couple of minutes he had sized up the house, both front and rear, and was more puzzled than ever.

He retreated into the shadowy darkness to figure things out. It seemed now that no public alarm had been given; the place was much too silent for that. The old woman might be inside, scared, with all the lights on, having been alarmed by some preliminary boobery by Skip. Or—his mind seized on a new idea—Skip and his friend might be in there searching, the old woman having outwitted them somehow.

Stolz could be there, of course, a grimmer possibility to Big Tom than the presence of the police. Big Tom chewed a lip, squinted at the lights, considered thoughtfully.

Common sense and every instinct for danger he possessed warned him to get out of here, forget the job, forget he’d ever heard of the old house and the money in it. But Big Tom hesitated. He was curious. His hands itched for the money, the great beautiful green heap—hot or not.

All at once he caught a movement at an upper window, stiffened, his eyes narrowed with fright. Something yellow bobbed against the pane, an indistinct furry mass; and then the dog had his paws on the window sill and seemed to be peering out at the dark and barking as if to summon help.