“Roger—no, Potts, you do it—run out and bring a taxi. Roger, you go up and watch in the stock-room, but keep out of range of any missile sent through the skylight.”
He began writing as Tip rushed out and Roger obeyed. On his way, as Potts came racing back, Roger heard, “Go to that address. Bring every shoe you can dig up. And get what’s written below, on your way back.”
He locked the door after the man departed. Roger heard the alarms being re-set. Then his older cousin joined him.
“What told you?” Roger knew that the Mystery Wizard was, at last, living up to his name.
“Claws-on-glass. Think. That was one big error. You have told me the truth.”
Roger was baffled. He saw nothing that he had said which linked up with the queer, sizzly, scrapey, frying and clicking sound.
Grover, with the upper floor extension plugged in, made call after call. “Grover Brown, calling Chief of Police—hello—that you? Chief, we’re going to have a round-up at the lab.” The usual calm was nil-minus. “Will you?—Glad if you come with the men—I will ask you not to let the men be seen—Wait at corners, across the street—Watch the skylight of our roof for a blue signal—Yes, then come in a hurry—Good-bye.”
To Roger’s stupefaction he repeated almost the same instructions to the men from Tibet, adding, “And—I promise to return to you the genuine Eye of Om—Good-bye.”
“But what told you, Grover?”
Grover glanced at his wrist-watch.