There was a moment's silence. The terrified voice, which had still seemed somehow familiar to him, was silent. He could hear from the room to which the instrument was connected, the musical chiming of a Swiss clock—the call of a bird—and then silence. His hand was upon the receiver to ring up the Exchange when suddenly a cry of terror, a cry of shrill, agonized terror, rang in his ear.
"Stirling! Mr. Deane! Stirling! Come—"
There was an abrupt cessation of that frantic cry. The last word was muffled, as though something had been dashed against the speaker's mouth. There was the sound of the falling of a chair or heavy piece of furniture. Then silence!—silence ominous, heavy, maddening!...
Deane rang up the Exchange. The young lady who answered him was a little annoyed at his vehemence.
"I want you to tell me to whom I have been speaking!" he exclaimed. "Where was I rung up from a few moments ago?"
"No idea," the young lady answered tartly. "Didn't they give their name?"
"I want to know where the call was from," Deane said. "Please tell me quickly."
"We don't take any note of local calls," the young lady answered. "Ring off, please!"
"Stop!" Deane cried. "Listen, please! This is important! I am Mr. Deane—Mr. Stirling Deane—of the Incorporated Gold-Mines Association. I have just been rung up by a woman in distress—some one who appealed for help. She was dragged away from the telephone before she could tell me where she was speaking from. You must try and find out the number for me. You must do it! It may be a matter of life or death!"
There was an instant's silence—a buzzing noise—then a man's voice. "Sorry, sir," he said, "our operator cannot remember the exact number that was speaking to you. It was a house in Red Lion Square, though. She is sure of that."