Sprague chuckled gently.
“Some fine day, Dick, you’ll learn to use your eyes and ears. I saw young Calmaine walking across from the railroad building just now—as you did, only you didn’t remark it consciously; and at the present moment I hear him coming through the lobby, with the limp very distinctly noticeable in the click of his heels upon the tiled floor. And now I’ll venture a guess: he is looking for you, and when he finds you he will give you a telegram.”
Almost as he spoke, Calmaine came up behind them. As Sprague had predicted, he had a telegram in his hand, which he gave to his superior with a word in explanation. “That is only a translation. The original is a cipher, and I locked it up in the office safe. It came just as I was getting ready to knock off.”
Maxwell read the telegram and passed it on to Sprague.
“It’s a little odd that Ford should use the same figure of speech that you did a few minutes ago,” he remarked. And then, with a short laugh, “If I were inclined to be superstitious I might wonder if your marvellous second mentality wasn’t looking over Calmaine’s shoulder as he translated that.”
Sprague had glanced at the message. It read:
“Big Nine still feeling for a strangle-hold on us. Look sharp that it does not get its fingers on your windpipe.
“Ford.”
The big man passed the square of paper back to his friend and stood up to stretch his arms over his head, yawning like a sleepy farm-hand.
“I’ve got to set up my shop and go to work sometime to-morrow,” he said. “Let’s go upstairs and turn in for a few lines of sleep.”