After the show he called a cab, and directed the driver to take him to the Argo Club.
IN the darkness of the cab Palermo temporarily dropped his impersonation of Horace Chatham. Some plan was passing through his mind, and his own peculiar smile appeared upon his lips.
“Ten minutes at the club,” he said softly. “That will be sufficient. I can call Wilkinson from there. He will surely be at home. If he is not, I can wait a little while.”
When the cab stopped at the Argo Club, the man who stepped forth was Horace Chatham to perfection.
The doorman spoke in greeting as he came through the door, and Palermo exchanged nods with two club members who were sitting in the hallway.
Then he strolled through the lounge and the library, staring straight ahead, as though in deep thought.
He was sure that more than one of Chatham’s friends observed him; but he did not tarry long enough to become engaged in conversation with any one. Instead, he went to a telephone in the corner of the hallway, and called a number.
“Mr. Wilkinson?” he asked. It was Horace Chatham’s voice that came from Palermo’s lips. “Ah! Glad you are in. Must see you tonight. Very important.
“What’s that? Good! I’m at the Argo Club. I’ll come up to see you right away, Wilkinson.”
There was a cigar stand by the telephone. Palermo noted that the clerk had overheard the conversation.