“Get that telephone book.” Gridley pointed to the table. “Look for the police headquarters. See if that’s their number.”
“Rats!” growled Phelan. “He ain’t a police sleuth. He’s no plain clothsie. I know that push.”
“Try the private agencies, then,” snapped Gridley. “Look up—stop a bit! Begin with Nick Carter. Try him. Look up his number.”
“Holy smoke!” thought Patsy. “Here’s where the cat makes her final jump. She’ll come clean out of the bag this time. But the rascals do not suspect the trick I’ve put over on them. That sure is my only anchor to the windward.”
Morgan and Turk Magill had turned pale when Nick Carter’s name was mentioned, and their fears were completely verified.
For Phelan, suddenly starting up from the telephone book he was hurriedly inspecting, cried excitedly:
“I’ve got it! Here’s the name and number. Four, seven Madison! It’s a telephone in Nick Carter’s business office.”
“Last jump is right,” thought Patsy.
Gridley swung round and gazed at him with murder in his eye.
“So Nick Carter wrote this note, did he?” said he, through his teeth. “You’re to telephone your discoveries to him, eh? What have you discovered? What has he got on us?”