“I don’t know what old Mauder will say,” said Angel as he fumbled for the bell; “he’s a methodical old chap.”
In the silence they could hear the thrill of the electric bell. They waited a few minutes, and rang again. Then they heard a window opened and a sleepy voice demand—
“Who is there?”
Angel stepped back from the porch and looked up.
“Hullo, Mauder! I want you. I’m Angel.”
“The devil!” said a surprised voice. “Wait a bit. I’ll be down in a jiffy.”
The pleasant-faced man who in dressing-gown and pajamas opened the door to them and conducted them to a cozy library was Mr. Ernest Mauder himself. It is unnecessary to introduce that world-famous publisher to the reader, the more particularly in view of the storm of controversy that burst about his robust figure in regard to the recent publication of Count Lehoff’s embarrassing “Memoirs.” He made a sign to the two men to be seated, nodding to Jimmy as to an old friend.
“I am awfully sorry to disturb you at this rotten hour,” Angel commenced, and the other arrested his apology with a gesture.
“You detective people are so fond of springing surprises on us unintelligent outsiders,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye, “that I am almost tempted to startle you.”
“It takes a lot to startle me,” said Angel complacently.