The telephone rang again—­imperatively, persistently.

“Listen, Jason.”  Jimmie Dale was speaking rapidly, earnestly.  “Say that I’ve come in and have gone to bed—­in a vile humour.  That you told me a lady had been calling, but that I said if she called again I wasn’t to be disturbed if it was the Queen of Sheba herself—­that I wouldn’t answer any ’phone to-night for anybody.  Do you understand?  No argument with her—­just that.  Now, answer!”

Jason lifted the receiver from the hook.

“Yes—­hello!” he said.  “Yes, ma’am, Mr. Dale has come in, but he has retired. . . .  Yes, I told him; but, begging your pardon, ma’am, he was in what I might say was a bit of a temper, and said he wasn’t to be disturbed by any one.”

Jimmie Dale snatched the receiver from Jason, and put it to his own ear.

“Kindly tell Mr. Dale that unless he comes to the ’phone now,” a feminine voice, her voice, in well-simulated indignation, was saying, “it will be a very long day before I shall trouble myself to—­”

Jimmie Dale clapped his hand firmly over the mouthpiece of the instrument.  Thank God for that clever brain of hers!  She understood!

“Repeat what you said before, Jason,” he instructed hurriedly.  “Then say ‘Good-night.’”

He removed his hand from the mouthpiece.

“It’s quite useless, ma’am,” said Jason apologetically.  “In the rare temper he was in, he wouldn’t come, to use his own words, ma’am, not for the Queen of Sheba herself, ma’am.  Good-night, ma’am.”

Jimmie Dale hung the receiver back on the hook—­and with his hand flirted away a bead of moisture that had sprung to his forehead.

“Good Lord, Master Jim, what’s wrong, sir?  What’s happened, sir?  And—­and those clothes, Master Jim, sir!  They aren’t the ones you went out in, sir—­they aren’t yours at all, sir!” Jason ventured anxiously.

“Jason,” said Jimmie Dale, “switch off the light, and go to the front window and look out.  Keep well behind the curtains.  Don’t show yourself.  Tell me if you see anything.”

“Yes, sir,” said Jason obediently.

The light went out.  Jimmie Dale moved to the rear of the room—­to the window overlooking the garage and yard.

“I don’t see anything, sir,” Jason called.

“Watch!” Jimmie Dale answered.

A minute passed—­two—­three.  Jimmie Dale was staring down into the black of the yard.  She understood!  She knew, of course, before she ’phoned that something had gone wrong to-night.  She knew that only peril of the gravest moment would have kept him from the ’phone—­and her.  She knew now, as a logical conclusion, that it was dangerous to attempt to communicate with him at his home.  Those wires!  Where did they lead to?  Not far away—­that would be almost a mechanical impossibility.  Was it into the Crime Club itself—­near at hand?  Or the basement, say, of that apartment house across the driveway?  Or—­where?