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 his red brow--the picture of a
man with a telephone dice-box to his ear, and at the small voice of a
single question, struck suddenly as white as ashes.

From these considerations I was awakened by the striking of the clock.
An hour and nearly twenty minutes had elapsed since Pinkerton departed
for the money: he was twenty minutes behind time; and to me who knew so
well his gluttonous despatch of business and had so frequently admired
his iron punctuality, the fact spoke volumes. The twenty minutes slowly
stretched into an hour; the hour had nearly extended to a second; and
I still sat in my corner of the office, or paced the marble pavement of
the hall, a prey to the most wretched anxiety and penitence. The hour
for lunch was nearly over before I remembered that I had not eaten.
Heaven knows I had no appetite; but there might still be much to do--it
was needful I should keep myself in proper trim, if it were only to
digest the now too probable bad news; and leaving word at the office for
Pinkerton, I sat down to table and called for soup, oysters, and a pint
of champagne.

I was not long set, before my friend returned. He looked pale and rather
old, refused to hear of food, and called for tea.

"I suppose all's up?" said I, with an incredible sinking.

"No," he replied; "I've pulled it through, Loudon; just pulled it
through. I couldn't have raised another cent in all 'Frisco. People
don't like it; Longhurst even went back on me; said he wasn't a
three-card-monte man."

"Well, what's the odds?" said I. "That's all we wanted,