“I’ll fix that, Joe. You’ve been in my house. There’s a number of rooms on the first floor, you remember. One we call the card room. I’ll be in there with the crowd.
“I’ll tell my man to show Middleton into the lounge room when he comes. It’s across the hall, past the side door. I’ll have you in there, to overhear what Middleton has to say.”
“Great! We’ll try it, anyway.”
CARDONA picked up the letter which he had placed on the desk. He studied the writing once more. Without a word, he tossed the message to Blefken.
Rising, the detective scooped up his whiskered mask, and in a few seconds he again presented the appearance of the old prospector.
There was no need for further discussion. Charles Blefken unlocked the door of the office. He shook hands cordially with his visitor as the disguised detective leaned on his cane.
“Good-by, sir,” declared Blefken, for all listeners to hear. “Good-by, and remember me to your stepson. A great boy, he is. Stop in any time, and tell him to do the same.”
Cardona flung a bewhiskered grin at the prim stenographer as he left the office. Down the corridor he hobbled, still playing the part of the old man. But beneath the scattering wig that adorned his head, the star detective was thinking of more than trivialities.
His mind was still upon that mad message — the strange letter that Charles Blefken had received from Jerry Middleton.
“Tonight!” muttered Cardona, as he waited for the elevator. “Tonight! And unless I miss my guess, Middleton will be there. There’s dynamite behind that note even though I didn’t say so to Blefken!”