It was late.

The street was quiet.

The shops and stores had long since been closed, Max Diestricht's among them--the old Hollanders' name in painted white letters stood out against the background of a darkened workshop window.

In the story above, the lights, too, were out; Max Diestricht was probably fast asleep--and he was stone deaf! A glance up and down the street, and Jimmie Dale was standing, or, rather, leaning against Max Diestricht's door.

There was no one to see, and if there were, what was there to attract attention to a man standing nonchalantly for a moment in a doorway?
It was only for a moment.