Again Larmon nodded.
“Perhaps it would be just as well,” he said.
Once more Crang looked cautiously around him.
“We—we are quite alone, I take it?”
“Quite,” said Larmon.
“My name is Anderson, William Anderson,” Crang stated smoothly. “I was the one who telephoned you last night. I am a friend of John Bruce—the only one he's got, I guess, except yourself. Bruce and I used to be boys together in San Francisco. I hadn't seen him for years until we ran into each other here in New York a few weeks ago and chummed up again. As I told you over the phone, I don't know the ins and outs of this, but I know he is in some trouble with a gang that he got mixed up with in the underworld somehow.”
“Tck!” The quill toothpick flexed sharply against one of the tall man's front teeth. “William Anderson”—he repeated the name musingly—“yes, I remember. I sent a telegram in your care to Mr. Bruce a few days ago.”
“Yes,” said Crang.
The quill toothpick appeared to occupy the tall man's full attention for a period of many seconds.
“Are you conversant with the contents of that telegram, Mr. Anderson?” he asked casually at last.