“Herb Rascomb may have asked him to get it from me,” he thought. “I made a mistake in talking too much today at the polo match.”
The telephone rang. Doyle leaped to his feet.
“That must be Rascomb now!” he exclaimed. “We may get our trip yet!”
“Count me out,” Flash murmured, but the technician did not hear.
Doyle talked for several minutes on the telephone, and his eager responses made it evident he was speaking with Rascomb. Presently, he placed his hand over the mouthpiece, turning toward Flash.
“Rascomb wants us to come out to his place for the week-end.”
“Well, your fish is playing with the bait. Better play him right so he doesn’t get away.”
“Rascomb says to bring you along.”
“Thanks. I’m not interested. I’ll stay here at the hotel.”
Doyle frowned.