The physician had no fear of theft or burglary. He had doubted the importance of the ring; in fact, he had believed that Henry Marchand would forget all about it.
Now the scarab ring seemed precious to Doctor Lukens. The ring was a souvenir of his dead friend.
Tears dimmed the physician’s eyes as he examined the ring and looked at the green beetle mounted on the gold.
He glanced at the inside of the ring and noted a series of tiny scratches. He was about to study them more closely when the phone rang. Doctor Lukens slipped the ring on his finger and answered the call.
THE telephone company reported that the number he had requested was a pay-station booth in the Grand Central Station. Doctor Lukens gasped; then he laughed as he hung up the receiver.
A moment later his mirth changed to serious thought. He called another number. A man’s voice answered.
“Barlow,” said the physician, “are you busy this afternoon and this evening?”
“No, sir,” came the reply.
“I have a job for you. Go to the Grand Central Station. Look over the telephone booths — in an indifferent manner, you understand. Find one that bears this number” — the physician referred to the card and gave the number — “and station yourself near at hand. Notify me if you see any one loitering about that booth.
“If the phone rings — about nine o’clock this evening — see who answers it. Call me promptly at Mister Marchand’s home.”