Three minutes later Shirley made his exit, and soon was shaking hands with Van Cleft in his own room at the hotel. He sketched his idea hurriedly, as he adjusted the instrument on the dressing-table near the telephone.
“When the call comes, be sure to say: 'Get closer, I can't hear you.' That's the method, and it's so simple it is almost silly.” They were barely ready when the bell warned them. At Van Cleft's reply, when the call for “Mr. Williams” Shirley pushed the horn close to the telephone receiver. Van Cleft twisted it, so as to give the best advantage, and demanded that the speaker come closer to the 'phone.
“Can you hear me now?” asked the feminine voice. “Do you hear me now?”
“No, speak louder. This is Mr. Williams. Speak up. I can't understand you.” The voice was petulant and so distinct that even Shirley could hear it, as he knelt by the side of the phonograph. Again Van Cleft insisted on his deafness. There was the suggestion of a break in the voice which brought to Shirley's eyes the sparkle of a presentiment of success. At last Van Cleft admitted that he could hear.
“Well, you fool, I've a message for your friend Mr. Van Cleft.”
“Which one?” was the innocent inquiry, as he forgot for an instant that now he was the sole bearer of that name.
“The one that's left. Tell him there will be none left if he continues this gum-shoe work. He had better let well enough alone, and let that little girl get out of town as soon as possible. The papers will go crazy over a scandal like this, and some one is apt to grab Van Cleft. That's all. Good-bye!”
Silently Shirley shut off the lever of the machine, to catch up the receiver. As before his endeavor to locate the call resulted in a new address: this time in the Bronx!
“Ah, the lady leaps from the business district to the Bronx in half an hour. That is what I call some traveling.”
Van Cleft studied him with open mouth, as he withdrew the phonograph record, coating it with the preservative to make the tiny lines permanent.