“His name? Why, it’s Jimmie Drury.”
“What’s that? Oh, you will? You’ll be over at once? That’s good.”
“What do you know about that?” Denny Sullivan exclaimed as he hung up. “Tom says he’ll be right over.”
“I knew he would,” Jimmie smiled.
“Well, we’ll be getting on up,” said the officer. “Give me your arm.”
Passing through double doors, they made their way up an inclined runway, crossed a long corridor, turned right, caught an elevator and were whisked away to the sixth floor.
There, after passing down one more corridor, they came to a large room where desks, chairs, and typewriters of all descriptions loomed out of the darkness of the place.
On their approach a tall, slender man rose slowly from his place beside a bank of telephones.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “It’s you, Jimmie. And,” with a laugh, “pinched again! What did he do this time, Denny?” He turned to the officer.
“Went out like a bad electric bulb,” said the officer. “And no cause at all, unless it was a sudden flash of light.