“Buuurrruuurrr! Buuurrruuurrr! Buuurrruuurrr!”
The Magnate started. He lowered his cigar, balanced it on the edge of the table, and turned slowly in his chair. He leaned over a smaller table which was littered with bronze ash-trays and inlaid match-boxes. He lifted the receiver of the insistent telephone. He pressed this to his ear.
Drew watched him narrowly. The terseness of a static charge of high voltage was in the great library. The face of the Munition Magnate grew cold with hauteur. It changed over the seconds to venom and red anger. His neck purpled. The diaphragm of the telephone instrument hissed its message. His hand clutched the hard-rubber receiver with white strength. A click followed as the connection was broken. Stockbridge dropped the receiver upon the hook. He turned slowly and stared at Drew with eyes that had aged over the moments. Wrinkles shot from their corners. Sullen light gleamed in their yellow depths.
“What happened?” questioned Drew half rising from his chair and leaning over. “Who phoned?”
The Magnate’s chin described an upward arc. His lips grew firm. Bulges showed at the sides of his jaw.
“What—who was it?” asked the detective.
Stockbridge stared at the letter upon the table. His neck changed from purple to a pasty ochre. A green sheen, like of death, overspread his crafty features. He was stricken with the clutch of fear.
Drew waited and thought rapidly. “What happened?” he asked with persuasion. “Nothing serious—I hope?”
“Serious,” said Stockbridge absently. “Serious!” he snarled. “Yes, it was serious! It was a death threat! It was what I had expected. It follows the letter. They—he will get me! He—he––”
“Who?” asked the detective.