"True," assented Hugh. "But I wish I could take some stock in the nonsense at the bottom of it."
"I wonder!" I said. "I'm drifting to Betty's belief that there is more in the treasure story than you think."
"It's bunk, I tell you," said Hugh, thoroughly disgusted. "Well, the Customs men are through. Watty, collect some porters, and get this baggage down to the taxi stand."
The cleaning-woman was still in the apartment when we returned, and she reiterated her assertion that nobody had called. We had some lunch, and then, on Watkins's suggestion, I rang up hotels for two hours—without any result. At the end of my tether I hung up the receiver and joined Hugh in gloomy reflection on the couch. Watkins hovered disconsolately in the adjoining dining room.
"There's one thing more to do," said Hugh suddenly. "Telephone the police."
"That would involve publicity," I pointed out.
"It can't be helped."
The telephone jangled harshly as he spoke, and I unhooked the receiver. Hugh started to his feet. Watkins entered noiselessly.
"Is this Mr. Chesby's apartment?" The voice that burred in my ear was strangely thick, with a guttural intonation. "Tell him they are taking what's left of his uncle to Bellevue. It's his own fault the old fool got it. And you can tell his nephew we will feed him a dose of the same medicine if he doesn't come across."
Brr-rring!