"Good Lord, Master Jim!" faltered Jason. "I—she"
"Jason," said Jimmie Dale, suddenly as cold as ice, "what did she say? Think, man! Every word!"
"She didn't say anything, Master Jim. Nothing at all, sir—except to keep asking each time if she could speak to you."
"Nothing else, Jason?"
"No, sir."
"You are sure?"
"I'm sure. Master Jim. Not another thing but that, sir, just as I've told you."
"Thank God!" said Jimmie Dale, in a low voice.
"Yes, sir," said Jason mechanically.
"How long ago was it since she telephoned last?" asked Jimmie Dale quickly.
"Well, sir, I couldn't rightly say. You see, as I said. Master Jim, I must have gone to sleep, but"
They were staring tensely into each other's face. The telephone on the desk was ringing vibrantly, clamourously, through the stillness of the room.
Jason, white, frightened, bewildered, touched his lips with the tip of his tongue.
"That'll be her again, sir," he said hoarsely.
"Wait!" said Jimmie Dale tersely.
He was trying to think, to think faster than he had ever thought before. He could not tell Jason to say that he had not yet come in—they knew he was in, it would be but showing his hand to that "some one" who would be listening now on the wire. He dared not speak to her, or, above all, allow her to expose herself by a single inadvertent word. He dared not speak to her—and she was here now, calling him! He could not speak to her—and it was life and death almost that she should know what had happened; life and death almost for both of them that he should know all and everything she could tell him. True, it would take but a minute to run to the cellar and cut those wires, while Jason held her on the pretence of calling him, Jimmie Dale, to the
