It was the voice of Count Poltavo.
If there had been anybody in the room but T. B., he might have imagined it was a very ordinary call the detective was receiving. Save for the fact that his face twitched, as was a characteristic of his when labouring under any great excitement, he gave no sign of the varied emotions Poltavo's voice had aroused.
"Yes, I am T. B. Smith; you are, of course, Count Poltavo?"
"I am, of course, Count Poltavo," said the voice suavely, "and it is on the tip of your tongue to ask me where I am."
"I am hardly as foolish as that," said T. B. drily, "but wherever you are—and I gather from the clearness of your voice that you are in London—I shall have you."
There was a little laugh at the other end of the wire.
T. B.'s hand stole out and pressed a little bell-push that rested on the table.
"Yes," said Poltavo's voice mockingly, "I am in London. I am desirous of knowing where my friends have hidden."
"Your friends?" T. B. was genuinely astonished.
"My friends," said the voice gravely, "who so ungenerously left me to die on the salt plains near Jerez whilst they were making their escape."