announced Kestner, as he motioned Wilsnach into a chair and at the same time resumed his own seat.
"What have you got?" asked Wilsnach, still standing.
"I've got their telephone wire tapped, and I've got a dictograph planted."
"Anything coming in?" anxiously inquired the newcomer.
"Not a thing from the dictograph. They're all lying low. The whole place is like a hen-run with a hawk overhead. And I can't figure out what's made them suspicious. But I'm waiting for something over this 'phone wire."
"Why do you say it's like a hen-run?"
"Because I've found their coop and they haven't altogether flown it!"
"They're here?" demanded Wilsnach.
"I've explored their whole blessed warren. And it's as complete a lay-out as you ever clapped eyes on—only I wish it were anywhere but in Palermo!"
"You mean you've found their quarters?" questioned Wilsnach, staring at him as he stopped to relight his cigar.
"I've found them and been through them. Every blessed—Wait a minute, there's something going over the wire!"
The two men suddenly froze into positions of suspended movement. Kestner was holding his head a little to one side, with the watch-case receiver pressed close against his ear, a blank stare of concentration on his face. He made the other man think of the hen-hawk again, a poised and quiescent vigilance forever
