“Yes, sir,” meekly promised the boy.
“Well, Captain Cronin, as the old paperback novels used to say at the end of the first instalment, 'The Plot thickens!' At first I thought this case of stupid badger game—”
“You aren't going to back out, Monty? Here's a whole gang of crooks which would give you some sport rounding up, and as for money—”
“Money is easy, from both sides of a criminal matter. What interests me is that ghostly telephone call from a house that burned down, and the caller's knowledge of Number Three. I'm in this case, have no fear of that.”
Shirley led his guest to the coat room.
“I'll get a taxicab, Monty. We'd better see that girl first and then have a look at the body.”
The Captain turned to the door, as the attendant helped Monty with his overcoat. The waiter from the grill-room approached. “Excuse me, sir, but the gentleman dropped his handkerchief in his chair opposite you.”
“Thank you, Gordon,” he said, as he faced the servant for an instant. When he turned again, toward the front hall, the Captain had passed out of view through the front door.
Shirley received a surprise when he reached the pavement on Forty-fourth Street, for Captain Cronin was not in sight. Two club men descended the steps of the neighboring house. Others strolled along toward the Avenue, but not a sign of a vehicle of any description could be seen, nor was there anything suspicious in view. Cronin had disappeared as effectually as though he had taken a passing Zeppelin!
“I'm glad this affair will not bore me,” murmured the criminologist, as he evolved and promptly discarded a dozen vain theories to explain the disappearance of his companion.