“What do you want? I can't hear you. The telephone is buzzing. Louder please!”
Shirley nodded approbation, as the machine ran along merrily.
“Now, can you hear me. Ahem! Can you hear me now? Is this Howard Van Cleft?”
“Yes, go ahead, but louder still.”
“Now, can you hear me? This is your father's dearest friend, Howard,—this is William Grimsby speaking. I am fearfully distressed and shocked to learn of his death, my poor boy. And Howard, I am grieved to learn that there is some little scandal about it. As your father's confidential adviser, I urge you to hush it up at all cost. I was told at your home just now by one of the servants that you had gone to this vulgar detective agency.”
Here Shirley shut off the phonograph, addressing Van Cleft with his hand over the mouthpiece of the telephone for the minute.
“Keep on talking until I return. Get his advice about flowers and everything else you can think of.”
Then he ran from the room, into the hallway, out of the door, and down the stoop to Fortieth Street. He looked about uncertainly, then espied across the way a tailor shop, where the light of the late workman still burned. Monty hurried thither and asked the use of the telephone upon the wall.
“Shuair, mister, but it will cost you a dime, for I have to pay the gas and the rent.”
From the telephone directory he obtained the address and number of William Grimsby, the banker. He received an answer promptly. The servant, after learning his name promised to call the master. A gruff voice answered soon. Mr. Grimsby declared that he had been reading in his library for the last two hours, undisturbed by any telephone calls. Shirley expressed a doubt.