As Van Cleft spoke, the butler approached with hesitation.
“Beg pardon, sir. But you are wanted on the telephone, sir.”
“All right, Hoskins. Connect it with the library instrument.”
Van Cleft lifted the receiver nervously, and answered in an unsteady voice.
“Yes—This is Van Cleft's residence.”
Silence for a bit, then the wire was busy.
“What's that? Captain Cronin? What about him? Let me speak to him.”
Shirley was alert as a cat. Van Cleft was too dazed to understand his sudden move, as the criminologist caught up the receiver, and placed his palm for an instant over the mouthpiece.
“Ask him to say it again—that you didn't understand.” Shirley removed his hand, and obeyed. Shirley held the receiver to his ear, as the young man spoke. Then he heard these curious words: “You poor simp, you'd better get that family doctor of yours to give you some ear medicine, and stop wasting time with the death certificate. I told you that Cronin was over in Bellevue Hospital with a fractured skull. Unless you drop this investigating, you'll get one, too. Ta, ta! Old top!”
The receiver was hung up quickly at the other end of the line.