“Sure—if he had a set of testers like this.” The lineman tapped his shirt with his left hand. “He could have talked with you, but he couldn’t ring your bell without a magneto or an alternating current of some kind.”
“Could he have cut the wires and connected them again without Central noticing anything out of the ordinary?”
“He might. But who would do that, sir?”
“That’s all!” said Drew in dismissal. “Here’s a dollar. Keep still about your visit here. We may want you later.”
“Want you later,” repeated the magpie.
Drew turned toward Stockbridge as the lineman shuffled through the portières. “Queer,” he said. “Tall fellow, eh! That’s the man who cut in and threatened you. We’ll get him! I’ll go out and see if Delaney has arrived. Two hours of the twelve have passed. Ten more should see you safely out of it.”
“THE MAN IN OLIVE-DRAB”
Triggy Drew stood on the marble steps of the Stockbridge mansion. The butler had just helped him on with his coat. The door had closed softly. The outer air gripped with cold that crackled. A soft snow was falling upon the city. It blurred the view of the Avenue, as seen to north and south. It wound the opposite buildings with a shroud of winter.