"Yes. What do you want? Who are you?"
The voice fitted his conception of the man, hard, commanding, with something sharply imperious in its cultivated accents. He thought he detected fear in it.
"It don't matter who I am. I got somethin' to say to you that matters.
It's time for you to skip."
There was a momentary pause, then the word was repeated, seemed to be ejected quickly as if delivered on a rising breath:
"Skip?"
"Yes—get out. You've got time—till tomorrow afternoon. They'll be lookin' for you then."
Again there was that slight pause. When the voice answered, trepidation was plain in it.
"Who's looking for me? What are you talking about ?"
It was Garland's turn to pause. For a considering moment he sought his words, then he gave them in short, telegraphic sentences:
"End of August. The tules—opposite the Ariel Club. Twelve thousand.
Whatcheer House, Sacramento. Harry Romaine."