“Central,” said I, “connect again 2241 and 584 B.”
A phantom central repeated the numbers; there was a pause, and then “Two two four one” came in a tiny voice into my ear—a voice with the English sing-song—the voice plainly of a gentleman. “Is that you again, Mr. Bellairs?” it trilled. “I tell you it’s no use. Is that you, Mr. Bellairs? Who is that?”
“I only want to put a single question,” said I, civilly. “Why do you want to buy the Flying Scud?”
No answer came. The telephone vibrated and hummed in miniature with all the numerous talk of a great city: but the voice of 2241 was silent. Once and twice I put my question; but the tiny sing-song English voice I heard no more. The man, then, had fled—fled from an impertinent question. It scarce seemed natural to me—unless on the principle that the wicked fleeth when no man pursueth. I took the telephone list and turned the number up: “2241, Mrs. Keane, res. 942 Mission Street.” And that, short of driving to the house and renewing my impertinence in person, was all that I could do.
Yet, as I resumed my seat in the corner of the office, I was conscious of a new element of the uncertain, the underhand, perhaps even the dangerous, in our adventure; and there was now a new picture in my mental gallery, to hang beside that of the wreck under its canopy of sea-birds and of Captain Trent mopping his red brow—the picture of a man with a telephone dice-box to his ear, and at the small voice of a single question struck suddenly as white as ashes.
From these considerations I was awakened by the striking of the clock. An hour and nearly twenty minutes had elapsed since Pinkerton departed for the money: he was twenty minutes behind time; and to me, who knew so well his gluttonous despatch of business, and had so frequently admired his iron punctuality, the fact spoke volumes. The twenty minutes slowly stretched into an hour; the hour had nearly extended to a second; and I still sat in my corner of the office, or paced the marble pavement of the hall, a prey to the most wretched anxiety and penitence. The hour for lunch was nearly over before I remembered that I had not eaten. Heaven knows I had no appetite; but there might still be much to do—it was needful I should keep myself in proper trim, if it were only to digest the now too probable bad news; and leaving word at the office for Pinkerton, I sat down to table and called for soup, oysters, and a pint of champagne.
I was not long set before my friend returned. He looked pale and rather old, refused to hear of food, and called for tea.
“I suppose all’s up?” said I, with an incredible sinking.
“No,” he replied; “I’ve pulled it through, Loudon—just pulled it through. I couldn’t have raised another cent in all ’Frisco. People don’t like it; Longhurst even went back on me; said he wasn’t a three-card-monte man.”
“Well, what’s the odds?” said I. “That’s all we wanted, isn’t it?”