That rippling, silvery laugh again, but now, too, it seemed to his eager ear, with just the faintest note of wistfulness in it.
“Some day, Jimmie. That letter now. It—”
Jimmie Dale straightened up suddenly—Jason's steps, running, sounded outside the room along the corridor—there was not an instant to lose.
“Hang up! Good-bye! Danger! Don't ring again!” he whispered hurriedly, and, with a miserable smile, replacing the receiver bitterly on the hook, he jumped for the curtain.
He reached it none too soon. The door opened, an electric-light switch clicked, and the room was flooded with light. Jason, still running, headed for the desk.
“It'll be her again!” Jimmie Dale heard the old man mutter, as from the edge of the portiere he watched the other's actions.
Jason picked up the telephone.
“Hello! Hello!” he called—then began to click impatiently with the receiver hook. “Hello! . . . Who? . . . Central? . . . I don't want any number—somebody was calling here. . . . What? . . . Nobody on the wire!”
He set the telephone back on the desk with a bewildered air.
“That's queer!” he exclaimed. “I could have sworn I heard it ring twice, and—” He stopped abruptly, and, leaning across the desk, hung there, wide-eyed, staring, while a sickly pallor began to steal into his face. “The letter!” he mumbled wildly. “The letter—Master Jim's letter—the letter—it's GONE!”