“The telephone?” he questioned. “I have just recalled that I must call the Cobalt Club—”
The millionaire summoned the footman. Then, rising, Waddell conducted Cranston to the door of the room, and indicated the direction. He instructed the servant to show Mr. Cranston the way. A few minutes later, Cranston was alone in a small room, speaking into the mouthpiece of a desk telephone.
“Ready, Burbank?” he questioned.
Evidently the reply was an affirmative one, for Cranston continued with instructions.
“Belmar Hotel, eleven thirty,” he declared. “Midnight train, Grand Central Station, destination Chicago. Marsland to cover at hotel as ordered. Vincent to cover at station as ordered.”
Lamont Cranston hung up the receiver. He stood motionless in the center of the room, his tall figure producing a mammoth shadow. Then the splotch of blackness dwindled as he advanced to the door. A few minutes later, Lamont Cranston was again seated beside Tobias Waddell.
JUST before eleven, Marcus Holtmann came over to say good-by to Tobias Waddell. He shook hands with Cranston and Noyes; then made his departure.
No one seemed to express a noticeable interest in Holtmann’s leaving. The man had stated that he must leave before eleven; hence his departure was brisk and businesslike. Lamont Cranston observed that fact. He turned his attention to the remaining guests.
Parker Noyes was still chatting with Tobias Waddell. Frederick Froman was seated in a corner, alone, contentedly puffing a panatella. David Tholbin, apparently oblivious to everything, was engaged in earnest conversation with the millionaire’s daughter.
A few minutes before half past eleven, Tholbin approached Waddell to announce that he was going in to New York. The millionaire received him rather gruffly, but Tholbin ignored the fact. Lamont Cranston, however, spoke cordially: