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 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