“I can guarantee it!” declared Michaels, emphatically. “You know what that means! You do not need the money now. Hold on!”
Blake shook his head.
“You are foolish, Blake,” said Michaels. He stopped as Herbert entered the room. The butler spoke to his master in a peculiar tone.
“Some one on the telephone, sir,” he said. “It is important.”
“Who is it?” demanded Blake.
“I do not know, sir,” stammered the butler. He looked significantly at his master. “You must answer it, sir. It is very important.”
BLAKE arose and left the room. He returned three minutes later. There was a slight scowl on his face; his expression changed to a slight smile as he saw his visitor standing in the center of the room. Blake’s right hand slipped inside his pocket.
“Mister Michaels,” he said, “I have an unusual question to ask you. It has been some time since I saw you. I should remember you well. But I have a bad memory at times. Would you mind telling me this: are you James Michaels of Chicago?”
The visitor looked firmly at his questioner. His eyes were steady and unflinching.
“Let me ask you a question,” he said, in a voice that bore a strange, accusing menace. “Are you Wilbur Blake of New York?”