“Eventually, I should suppose,” declared Belden. “With your membership established in our association — with the regular payment of your assessments — your prestige would reach a remarkable height. I feel positive, Mr. Griscom—”
“You want me to betray my trust!” said Griscom coldly. His eyes were those of a maniac. “I do not care for your promise or your threats! I shall call the police—”
“It would be very unwise,” said Belden firmly. “Take my advice, Mr. Griscom. Sign that paper!”
Wearily, Howard Griscom lifted a pen. Then came his remembrance of Lamont Cranston’s words. “Wait and keep up your courage.”
Should he wait? Could he wait?
Griscom closed his eyes. To his fevered mind came the image of George Ballantyne. He could see the body of the murdered man, pointing a finger of accusation. The thought was dominating.
Griscom fumbled for the telephone. Maurice Belden was talking, persuading. Griscom did not heed him. He called police headquarters.
“You can’t do that!” exclaimed Belden. “Remember what your daughter said. Remember!”
Griscom’s eyes were open now. They were staring wildly. Reaching suddenly into a desk drawer, his hand came out holding a small revolver, which he aimed at Belden. The man recoiled in fear.
“Police headquarters?” came Griscom’s far-away voice. “This is Howard Griscom. Paladrome Theater Building. My daughter has been kidnapped. I must see detectives immediately. Can you send them to my office—”