“How dare you doubt my word, sir. The telephone is in my reception room where I heard it ring just now, for the first time. What do you want?”
“An interview with you to-morrow morning at nine on a life and death matter. I can merely remind you, sir, that two of your friends, Wellington Serral and Herbert de Cleyster have met mysterious deaths during the past week. Mr. Van Cleft died of heart failure to-night. I will be there at nine. As you value your own life do not leave your residence or even answer any telephone messages again until I see you.”
“Well, I'll be—” Shirley disconnected, before the verb was reached. He tossed the coin to the tailor, and speedily returned to the waiting room where he signaled Van Cleft to end the conversation.
“Quick now, find out what wire called you up.” The answer was “William Grimsby, 97 Fifth Avenue.”
“You had the wrong tip that time, Mr. Shirley,” said Van Cleft. “But how could he have found out where I was, for none of the servants know about Captain Cronin, or even my family that I was coming down here. He gave me some good advice however. I want to pay the hush money and end it all forever.”
Shirley had preserved the record and put it away with the others in the grip. Now he lit a cigarette and puffed several rings of smoke before answering.
“Van, it must be wonderful to be twins.”
“This is no night for joking,” petulantly, observed the nervous young man. “I want the girl silenced—”
“She won't open her mouth after I tell her some things. It may entertain you to know, Van, that while you were getting such good advice from Mr. Grimsby on this wire, I was talking to the real Mr. Grimsby on his own wire: he said I was his first caller in more than an hour. So, I gave him some good advice, which wouldn't interest you. After this don't believe what the telephone tells.”
“Who was I speaking with?”