“That you, Sylvester?” he called into the mouth-piece. “If Mrs. Brewster comes to the office, telephone me at Mr. Rochester's apartment, Franklin 52. Don't let Mrs. Brewster leave until I have seen her.”
“Yes, sir,” came the reply, and Kent hung up the receiver.
“Had any luncheon?” he asked Nelson as the man loitered around.
“Not yet”—Nelson's eyes brightened at the word. It was long past his usual meal hour.
“Run down to the cafe on the first floor and tell the head waiter to give you a square meal and charge it to me,” Kent directed. “Order something substantial; you must be used up.”
The man hung back. “Thank you, Mr. Kent, but I don't like to leave here until my relief comes,” he objected.
“That's all right, I'll stay in the apartment until you return,” and Kent settled the question by opening the door leading into the outer corridor. “Ferguson will be around shortly, so hurry.”
Kent watched the man scurry toward the elevator shaft, then returned to Rochester's apartment and once more took up the telephone. The operative's reluctance to leave the apartment unguarded had altered his plans somewhat.
“Is this Dr. Stone's office?” he asked a moment later, as a faint “hello,” came over the wire. “Oh, doctor, this is Kent. Please come over to Rochester's apartment; I would like to consult you in regard to an important matter. You'll come now? Thanks.”
The doctor kept Kent waiting less than five minutes. The clock was striking one when he appeared, bland and smiling. Hardly waiting for him to select a seat Kent flung himself into a chair in front of Rochester's desk and laid the pill box on the writing pad.