congratulate you on your late success.” And with that he was gone, obsequiously bowing as he passed.
And now a madcap humour came upon me. It was plain Bellairs had been communicating with his principal; I knew the number, if not the name; should I ring up at once, it was more than likely he would return in person to the telephone; why should not I dash (vocally) into the presence of this mysterious person, and have some fun for my money. I pressed the bell.
“Central,” said I, “connect again 2241 and 584 B.”
A phantom central repeated the numbers; there was a pause, and then “Two two four one,” came in a tiny voice into my ear—a voice with the English sing-song—the voice plainly of a gentleman. “Is that you again, Mr. Bellairs?” it trilled. “I tell you it's no use. Is that you, Mr. Bellairs? Who is that?”
“I only want to put a single question,” said I, civilly. “Why do you want to buy the Flying Scud?”
No answer came. The telephone vibrated and hummed in miniature with all the numerous talk of a great city; but the voice of 2241 was silent. Once and twice I put my question; but the tiny, sing-song English voice, I heard no more. The man, then, had fled—fled from an impertinent question? It scarce seemed natural to me—unless on the principle that the wicked fleeth when no man pursueth. I took the telephone list and turned the number up: “2241, Mrs. Keane, res. 942 Mission Street.” And that, short of driving to the house and renewing my impertinence in person, was all that I could do.
Yet, as I resumed my seat in the corner of the office, I was conscious of a new element of the uncertain, the underhand, perhaps even the dangerous, in our adventure; and there was now a new picture in my mental gallery, to hang beside that of the wreck under its canopy of sea-birds and of Captain Trent mopping
