He broke off short to listen. Just before the air of the room had been filled with the melodious notes of Titl’s Serenade. Now, as the notes died away, without announcement someone broke in with the words:
“I am the Voice.”
“The Voice!” Johnny exclaimed. “Where did I hear that expression before?”
But the voice was going on. It was telling the people of this great city, at an hour when they were at home and in a thoughtful mood, just what their city was like.
“I am the Voice.” The tones were low and mellow, a kindly, almost pleading voice. “This is your city and my city. It is our home. We have always lived here. We love it. And yet it is a graft-ridden, crime-ridden city.
“I am the Voice. I must tell you of these things. I, the Voice, am hidden away. I will be hidden. No one knows my name. The announcer does not know, the station manager does not know. No one sees me. No one will see me. I am only a Voice. Each night at this hour I will tell you of our city. I will tell you many things that it is disturbing to hear; yet you must hear them. It is my duty to speak; yours to listen.”
Johnny thrilled and trembled at the sound of this Voice. It was as if the Voice was no real person, but one returned from the dead.
“Like the Gray Shadow,” he told himself. “So unreal.”
Though the Voice seemed unreal, the events it was to speak of next were real enough, as Johnny was in a position to know.
“Only one little group of facts to-night,” the Voice went on, “then I am done. A few hours ago, a known gunman was arrested. Damaging evidence was found on his person. Two young detectives who have built up an enviable record for themselves, brought him in. The evidence was placed before the Chief. The Chief returned the evidence. Why? A man whispered into his ear. Why? The gunman was released. Why?