Again he thought of what he should do.  Now that he commanded a composure which had not been his during the stress of his flight, he examined every aspect with greater care.  But the conclusions of composure were the same as those of excitement.  He could not gain entrance to one of the great hotels and remain in his room, unidentified among its thousands of strangers; he could not find asylum in one of his old haunts; he dared not try to leave Manhattan.  He was a prisoner, whose only privilege was a larger but most uncertain liberty.

And that liberty was becoming penetratingly uncomfortable.  An hour had passed, the ground on which he sat was wet and cold, and the misty air was assuming a distressing kinship with departed winter and was making shivering assaults upon his bones.  At the best, he realized, he could not hope to remain secure in this cultivated wilderness beyond daylight.  With the coming of morning he would certainly be the prey of either his pals or the police.  And if they did not beat him from his hiding, plain mortal hunger would drive him out into the open streets.  If he was to do anything at all, he must do it while he still had the moderate protection of the night.

And then for the first time there came to him remembrance of Hunt’s rapid injunction, given him in the hurly-burly of escape when no thoughts could impress the upper surface of his mind save those of the immediate moment.  “If you’re trapped, call Plaza nine-double-o-one and say ‘Benvenuto Cellini.’”

Larry had no idea what that swift instruction might be about.  And the chance seemed a slender, fantastical one, even if he could safely get to a public telephone.  But it seemed his only chance.

He arose, and, keeping as much as he could to the wilder regions of the park, and making the utmost use of shadows when he had to cross a path or a drive, he stole southward.  He remembered a drug-store at Eighty-Fourth Street and Columbus Avenue, peculiarly suited to his purpose, for it had a side entrance on Eighty-Fourth Street and was in a neighborhood where policemen were infrequent.

Fortune favored him.  At length he reached Eighty-Fourth Street and peered over the wall.  Central Park West was practically empty of automobiles, for the theaters had not yet discharged their crowds and no policeman was in sight.  He vaulted the wall; a minute later he was in a booth in the drug-store, had dropped his nickel in the slot, and was asking for Plaza nine-double-o-one.

“Hello, sir!” responded the very correct voice of a man.

“Benvenuto Cellini,” said Larry.

“Hold the wire, sir,” said the voice.

Larry held the wire, wondering.  After a moment the same correct voice asked where Larry was speaking from.  Larry gave the exact information.

“Stay right in the booth, and keep on talking; say anything you like; the wire here will be kept open,” continued the voice.  “We’ll not keep you waiting long, sir.”