The portières parted and revealed the beef-red face of the English butler. He advanced a step.
“The trouble-man from the telephone company is ’ere, sir,” he said. “’E’s ’ere! ’E’s been hover the junctions in the halley, sir. ’E’s looked at the junction-box. ’E says, sir, there’s no trouble there. ’E says ‘it must be in ’ere, sir.’”
“In ’ere, sir,” repeated the magpie with a loud squawking and rustle of wings. “Junction-box! Junction-box!” it cried with its head through the gilded bars.
“Shut up, Don!” ordered Stockbridge. “Be a good bird,” he added sharply. “Now, Straker, you may show the trouble-hunter up.”
“Trouble-hunter! Trouble-hunter!” echoed the magpie.
Drew, somewhat amused, thrust his hands in the pockets of his coat and eyed the opening between the curtains. A click of tools sounded metallically. A shambling step was in the hallway.
“This woiy,” said the butler in a superior tone. “Right this woiy, you!”
The portières parted. A slouching figure, with a greasy cap drawn far down over the eyes, entered the library with a lineman’s satchel on his hip. He swung the strap from his shoulder, glanced at Stockbridge and then at the detective. He dropped the satchel to the floor and scratched his head.
“Take a look at this ’phone,” said Drew. “Go over the wires. Look for any cuts. The trouble ought not to be in here.”
Stockbridge rose and made room for the lineman, who lifted the satchel and strode to the ’phone. He dropped to one knee by the little table. He fished forth a testing-set from his shirt. It was bound with two leads of cotton-insulated wire.