There was no one to be seen. Greatly shaken, Kelly stumbled back to a chair near a workbench and deposited himself in it.
“Felt like a batterin’-ram,” mumbled Kelly. “If I had been kicked by a mule it wouldn’t have knocked me out more’n what it did. Who’d have thought that lad had so much ginger in him? Whisht, now, while I think what’s to be done.”
Matt King’s escape, Kelly knew, ought to be communicated to Levitt, in some way, but how was it to be done? Levitt was between the clubhouse and New York in an automobile.
Ah, Kelly had it! He would call up Krug’s and tell some one there to lay for Levitt and bring him to the telephone.
Kelly, alert and eager to undo some of the damage that had been caused the plans of Levitt by Matt’s escape, hurried to the phone in the rear of the garage, and was soon connected with Krug’s.
“Any one there who knows Hannibal J. Levitt?” he asked.
“I’ll find out,” answered a voice from the other end of the wire.
“Well, hurry up!” implored Kelly. “I’m in a tearing rush.”
In about a minute—an hour it seemed to the impatient Kelly—another voice floated back along the wire.