"Exchange, sir—Private Exchange, Scotland Yard."
"Who was talking to me then? Where was he talking from?"
"Why, from the Record Office."
T. B., his face white, leapt to his feet.
"Follow me," he said, and went racing down the long corridor. He went down the broad stairs three at a time.
A constable on duty in the hall turned in astonishment.
"Has anybody left here recently?" asked T. B. breathlessly.
"A gentleman just gone out, sir," said the man; "went away in a motor-car."
"Is Mr. Elk in the building?"
"In the Record Office, sir," said the man.