who should come hurrying in, and (after a moment with a clerk) fly to one of the telephone boxes but Mr. Henry D. Bellairs in person?  Call it what you will, but the impulse was irresistible, and I rose and took a place immediately at the man’s back.  It may be some excuse that I had often practised this very innocent form of eavesdropping upon strangers, and for fun.  Indeed, I scarce know anything that gives a lower view of man’s intelligence than to overhear (as you thus do) one side of a communication.

“Central,” said the attorney, “2241 and 584 B” (or some such numbers)—­“Who’s that?—­All right—­Mr. Bellairs—­Occidental; the wires are fouled in the other place—­Yes, about three minutes—­Yes—­Yes—­Your figure, I am sorry to say—­No—­I had no authority—­Neither more nor less—­I have every reason to suppose so—­O, Pinkerton, Montana Block—­Yes—­Yes—­Very good, sir—­As you will, sir—­Disconnect 584 B.”

Bellairs turned to leave; at sight of me behind him, up flew his hands, and he winced and cringed, as though in fear of bodily attack.  “O, it’s you!” he cried; and then, somewhat recovered, “Mr. Pinkerton’s partner, I believe?  I am pleased to see you, sir—­to congratulate you on your late success.”  And with that he was gone, obsequiously bowing as he passed.

And now a madcap humour came upon me.  It was plain Bellairs had been communicating with his principal; I knew the number, if not the name; should I ring up at once, it was more than likely he would return in person to the telephone; why should not I dash (vocally) into the presence of this mysterious person, and have some fun for my money.  I pressed the bell.

“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.