CHAPTER I. THE PURPLE SAPPHIRE
THE doorman of the Marimba Apartments on Park Avenue stared long and hard at the face of the stranger. As the man turned in toward the apartment entrance, the doorman uttered a stifled exclamation.
There was something about the visitor’s appearance to startle any one.
The features of the gentleman were haggard with fear, terror-torn and gray, and his lips trembled in spite of his efforts to keep hold on himself. It was fully five seconds before he was able to speak to the hall attendant.
“I wish to see Doctor Palermo,” he said in a tense voice. “Is — is he in his apartment?”
“Wait here a moment, sir,” replied the attendant. “I must phone upstairs. Your name is—”
“Chatham. Horace Chatham.”
It was not more than half a minute before the hallman received word that the visitor could come up; yet, even during that brief period, Horace Chatham showed signs of unrepressed nervousness.
Pacing back and forth, he clenched and unclenched his fists, and completely betrayed his fearful impatience.
The hallman ushered Chatham into the elevator, instructing the operator to take his passenger to the fortieth floor.