Jimmy's blue eyes flashed toward Phil a startled but admiring glance.
"What do you propose to do, Hunt?" demanded Phil.
"Think," I replied; "think hard—think things through. Wednesday morning I shall leave for New York."
II
My prophecy was correct. Wednesday, at 12.03 a. m., I left for New York, in response to the shocking telegram from Lucette. I arrived at Gertrude's address, an august apartment house on upper Park Avenue, a little before half-past two, dismissed my taxi at the door, noting as I did so a second taxi standing at the curb just ahead of my own, and was admitted to the dignified public entrance-hall with surprising promptness, considering the hour, by the mature buttons on duty. Buttons was a man nearing sixty, at a guess, of markedly Irish traits, and he was unexpectedly wide-awake. When I gave him my name, and briefly stated the reason for my untimely arrival, his deep-set eyes glittered with excited curiosity, while he drew down deep parallels about his mouth in a grimacing attempt at deepest sympathy and profoundest respect. I questioned him. Several persons had gone up to Mrs. Hunt's apartment, he solemnly informed me, during the past two hours. He believed the police were in charge.
"Police?" I exclaimed, incredulous.
He believed so. He would say no more.
"Take me up at once!" I snapped at him. "Surely there's a mistake. There can be no reason for police interference."
His eyes glittered more shrewdly, the drawn parallels deepened yet further as he shot back the elevator door. . . .
It was unmistakably a police officer who admitted me for the first and last time to Gertrude's apartment. On hearing my name he nodded, then closed the door firmly in the face of Buttons, who had lingered.