BURBANK GIVES INFORMATION
The downstairs telephone rang in Lamont Cranston’s home. Richards answered it. He recognized the millionaire’s voice. He called Burbank.
The quiet wireless operator waited until the valet had left the room where the phone was located. Then he repeated the word that had come from Harry Vincent. He could tell that his employer was making notes of the information.
“All right,” came the voice from the receiver. “Stay at my house, Burbank. I won’t be home to-night.”
Lamont Cranston emerged from the phone booth at the Cobalt Club. He nodded to a friend who was passing. He went to the checkroom for his coat and hat. He also took a package that he had left.
The clock above the door showed twenty-five minutes of ten. Lamont Cranston glanced at it. His face betrayed no definite expression, but he murmured two words as he left the building.
“By midnight.”
A limousine was waiting near by. The millionaire stepped in, and snapped an order.
“Move rapidly, Stanley,” he said to the chauffeur. “To the airport.”
The chauffeur nodded. A light drizzle was falling, and the street was slippery. But the powerful car moved speedily. The chauffeur found a street where traffic was light, and the automobile turned in the direction of the Holland Tunnel.