"Hennessy's in town to-day. So's Harper of the M. T., Lloyd, of the Western, and several others."
"Go on." Bassett had begun on a fresh cigar.
"They're all hanging out at the Wellesley—room 416. If anything stirs, it ought to be there."
"Yes."
"I sized up the place this morning when nobody was there. Also I hired the next room to it. There's a doorway that commands the whole room. It struck me that if we could put a camera covering 416, by way of that doorway, and have another fellow watching through a hole in the wall, the minute they start anything, we'd yank open the door and touch off the flash. I guess we'd have something, what?"
"You're not without brains, Furniss," said Bassett unemotionally.
"Thanks," said Furniss in a similar tone. Neither tone expressed the feelings of its owner.
Bassett never wasted time in praise or blame—until after the matter was concluded. Then he excelled in either capacity. But the present moment called for action, not words.
"You and Good with Sato for the pictures ought to cover it," he said crisply. A curious expression twisted Furniss' lips. It was not a smile. It might rather be called a premonition of one.
"If they pull off anything it'll be to-night," he said, as Bassett turned back from his insistent telephone. "Both Hennessy and Lloyd I happen to know are going South to-morrow."