e house are two of the help, so I judged.
One is a square-built female with a stupid, heavy face, while the other
is a tall, skinny old girl with narrow-set eyes and a sharp nose.

"Well," says I, "where's your riot?"

"S-s-s-sh!" says he. "They're up to some mischief. One of them is
hiding something under her shawl. Watch."

Sure enough, the skinny one did have her left elbow stuck out, and there
was a bulge in the shawl.

"Looks like a case of emptyin' the ashes," says I.

"Or of placing a bomb," whispers the Lieutenant.

"Mooshwaw!" says I. "Bomb your aunt! What for should they--"

"Look now!" he breaks in. "There!"

They're advancin' in single file, slow and stealthy, and gazin' around
cautious. Mainly they seem to be watchin' the back fire-escapes of the
flat buildin' next door, but now and then one of 'em turns and glances
towards the old house they've just left. 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'. "Maybe if we had his
name, though, and knew something about him, we might--"

"It's Bauer," says the janitor, eyein' the two bits longin'. "Herman Z.
Bauer; a big brewer once, but now--yah, an old cripple. Gout, they say.
And mean as he is rich. See that high fence? He built