"There was something of a command about the summons. It was unusual for us to be rung up at that time of night. I wondered what was up. I went to the instrument and took hold of the receiver.
"'Yes,' I called. 'Who's there? I'm Sergeant Silk, at Soldier's Knee. Who are you?'
"The answer came in a strained, broken voice of agitation, beginning in an eager whisper that I could barely hear amid the soughing of the wind and the howling of the wolves, and ending on the last word in a positive scream of bodily distress and pain—
"'Coyote Landing—post office—quick! Send help! There's a chap in here robbing the mail bags. Listen! Do you hear? Quick! Help! Oh, help!'"
Sergeant Silk paused to light a new cigarette. His listeners drew nearer to him—all of them but Eben Sharrow, who seemed to be having some trouble in cleaning out his pipe.
"That was all that he said," Silk resumed—"all the words that I could hear. But I knew his voice. It was the voice of Will Bonner, the postal agent at Coyote Landing, and he had said enough to let me know that it wasn't only the mails that were in danger. There was an awful, choking sound, followed by a piercing cry of agony. And then all was suddenly silent. Try how I would, I couldn't get another word from that telephone."
"Perhaps the instrument was broken," interrupted Percy Rapson.
"Exactly," Silk nodded. "The wires had been cut, as I found when I got there."
"Then you went?" inquired Percy. "You went, although you knew it must be too late?"