“Arthur Hilton?” Fay questioned.
“By appointment?”
“Yes. He phoned me at—” Fay glanced up to the gilt clock over the clerk’s head. “Exactly twenty minutes ago!” he declared.
The page who responded to the pressure of a button led the way to a private elevator, nodded to the pilot and closed the green-grilled door when Fay stepped briskly inside the cage.
He was whisked to a silent stop on an upper floor. He stepped out and faced a gray-haired English detective of the superior type, who had been pacing an ornate hallway.
“Arthur Hilton?” said Fay.
“By Sir Arthur’s consent?”
“Certainly!”
“You may follow me,” drawled the Scotland Yard man.
Fay found himself in the foyer of a splendid suite. He waited, toying with his cap, as the detective passed through a rift in the portiéres which led in the general direction of Fifth Avenue. He was on the point of coughing to attract attention when the curtains parted in invitation.