“I know you said you were clever,” said John Bruce shortly, “and I have no doubt this is the proof of it! But what is the idea? I did not send a telegram to any one.
“Oh, yes, you did!” Crang was chuckling evilly.
“It was something to the effect that Mr. Larmon's immediate presence in New York was imperative; that you were in serious difficulties. And in order that Mr. Larmon might have no suspicions or anxiety aroused as to his own personal safety, he was to go on his arrival to the Bayne-Miloy Hotel; but was, at the same time, to register under the name of R. L. Peters, and to make no effort to communicate with you until you gave him the cue. The answer to the telegram was to be sent to a—er—quite different address. And here's the answer.”
His revolver levelled, Crang laid a telegram on the table, and then backed away a few steps.
John Bruce picked up the message. It was dated from San Francisco several days before, and was authentic beyond question. It was addressed to John Bruce in the care of one William Anderson, at an address which he took to be somewhere over on the East Side. He read it quickly:
Leaving at once and will follow instructions. Arrive Wednesday night. Am exceedingly anxious.
Gilbert Larmon.
“This is Wednesday night,” sneered Crang.
John Bruce laid down the telegram. That Crang in some way had discovered his, John Bruce's connection with Larmon, was obvious. But how—and what did it mean? He smiled coldly. There was no use in playing the fool by denying any knowledge of Larmon. It was simply a question of exactly how much Crang knew.
“Well?” he inquired indifferently.