“Sorry, sir,” she said. “Mister Bishop cannot see you to-day. You may come back to-morrow and give your name then.”
PAGET left the room. His eyes sparkled with admiration as he rode down the elevator — pure admiration of the system employed by the Silent Seven.
There, in a darkened room, he had conversed with Number One — a man who might be miles away. He knew that both doors must have been locked during the conference, and that the room was absolutely sound-proof.
It was nearly five o’clock when Paget arrived at his apartment. He had been there only a few minutes when a note was pushed under his door. He opened the envelope. The message read: Leave the club at ten o’clock tonight. Come to the Perry Warehouse on Sixty-eighth Street near Tenth Avenue. Enter side door and go upstairs. V.
Paget memorized the simple instructions. He tore up the note and tossed the fragments in the wastebasket.
He donned a tuxedo; then sat in an easy-chair and thoughtfully puffed a cigarette through the ivory holder. His hand went to the watch pocket of his trousers, where he had placed the scarab ring.
He was attempting to visualize the plans of Number One. He rejected the theory that he might be under the surveillance of the Silent Seven. As Number Five of that organization, he had been unchallenged at the meeting.
He thoroughly believed that the mysterious man known as The Shadow was a free agent who was threatening his plans.
The note had come from Number One whoever he might be. It assumed, of course, that Paget had been informed to watch for it by Number Five.
The signature, V., was a clever touch, as it showed the author knew that Paget’s chief was Number Five, V being the Roman numeral for five. At the same time, any one finding the note would suppose V. to be the initial of the writer.