e Occidental Hotel, on the steps of
which we had finished our conversation. I was well known to the clerks,
and as soon as it was understood that I was there to wait for Pinkerton
and lunch, I was invited to a seat inside the counter. Here, then, in a
retired corner, I was beginning to come a little to myself after these
so violent experiences, when who should come hurrying in, and (after a
moment with a clerk) fly to one of the telephone boxes but Mr. Henry
D. Bellairs in person? Call it what you will, but the impulse was
irresistible, and I rose and took a place immediately at the man's back.
It may be some excuse that I had often practised this very innocent
form of eavesdropping upon strangers, and for fun. Indeed, I scarce know
anything that gives a lower view of man's intelligence than to overhear
(as you thus do) one side of a communication.

"Central," said the attorney, "2241 and 584 B" (or some such
numbers)--"Who's that?--All right--Mr. Bellairs--Occidental; the wires
are fouled in the other place--Yes, about three minutes--Yes--Yes--Your
figure, I am sorry to say--No--I had no authority--Neither more
nor less--I have every reason to suppose so--O, Pinkerton, Montana
Block--Yes--Yes--Very good, sir--As you will, sir--Disconnect 584 B."

Bellairs turned to leave; at sight of me behind him, up flew his hands,
and he winced and cringed, as though in fear of bodily attack. "O, it's
you!" he cried; and then, somewhat recovered, "Mr. Pinkerton's partner,
I believe? I am pleased to see you, sir--to 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