e that Frick had just 'phoned and said
that Morphy had come out of the guard room, looked around, then, after
chinning with a keeper at the front gate, he had started going over a
telephone book for a number. Nefe said for me to hold the wire. Then I
gets a number, Chief. It's Gramercy Hill 11,678. Nefe said that was a
booth in the new Broadway Subway at Forty-first Street. I piles into a
cab and arrives there just as this fellow had finished boring a hole
between the two booths--11,678 and 11,679. I waits behind a
slot-machine. Some one rang up when he coupled the wires, listens, then
asks Gramercy Hill central for this 'phone here in Miss Stockbridge's
room. You see the game, Chief?"

"Go on!" said Drew. "Be very clear!"

"This fellow was connecting Morphy at state prison with this house
through the two slot booths. I sneaked up and waited for him to finish.
He's busy with a pair of pliers. I falls on him like a ton of bricks.
Then after I get the cuffs on, I listens in. It's Morphy roaring there,
with that big bull voice of his. He's mad 'cause he gets no answer. He
shouts over and over, Chief--'Bert! Bert! Bert! Is it planted in her
room? Her room. Is it there?'" Delaney paused and stared about the
sitting room.

"What does he mean, Chief?" he asked huskily. "What is that _'it'?"_

"Go on!" said Drew tersely.

"I got Morphy off the wire, Chief. I got Frick and then Frick got the
warden. He's a good fellow. He listened to me, then he calls some
guards and they drag Morphy through the prison and down to the coolers.
I guess they're down in the ground, somewhere. Anyway, Chief, he's gone
for good--unless they send him to the chair for his part in the murder
of Stockbridge."

"He'll go! What I want to know now, Delaney, is this fellow's right
name. Morphy said 'Bert,' eh?"

"Sure he did, Chief. 'Bert! Bert! Bert!' That's close to Albert. Albert
Jones, like's in the letter."

"No! That would be a throw-off. He's some other kind of a Bert. Let me
see his cap."

Delaney picked the prisoner's cap from the rug and passed it over to
Drew. The detective examined it, ripped the silk, and looked under the
lining. He straightened and handed it to Harry Nichols.

"Can you make that name out?" he asked. "Your eyes are younger than
mine. Perhaps Miss Stockbridge can read it. It's Spanish, I think.
'Gusta' or 'Gasta.' The rest is obliterated with grease."

"Antofagasta!" declared Loris suddenly. "It's Antofagasta, Chile