Occasionally a man would walk hurriedly up the narrow walk, carrying a
suspicious bundle, and eyeing nervously every person he might meet,
dodging suddenly into some one of the doors. All this Sam saw, but his
eyes seldom left the half-open door immediately opposite.

He had been at his post nearly an hour, smoking a cigar or supping his
liquor, the bar-keeper not caring what his customer did or what he was,
so long as he ordered and paid for an occasional drink, when there
appeared at the door of the house which the detective was so closely
watching a tall, dark-complexioned woman. Her eyes, strikingly
brilliant, swept the place, but the shadows of the beer-cellar prevented
her seeing the interested person who noted every movement she made. The
woman, after gazing up and down the court, threw her shawl over her
head, and with long, gliding steps, walked toward the street.

The bar-keeper who was standing beside Sam, as the female passed down
the court, said with an outward jerk of his thumb:

"Rum old gal that."

"Friend of yours?" lazily inquired the detective.

"Naw. I don't have nothin' to do with her, nor she with me. She's a
fortune-teller, she is."

"One of them kind that lays out the cards, and spells out your fortune,
eh?"

"I dunno. I never was in her den."