He paused, as though he had something on his mind.

“Go on,” urged Kennedy.  “Tell all.  You must tell all.”

“I was just thinking,” he hesitated.  “I remember I saw Ike the Dropper and Marie Margot there that day, too, with Martin Ogleby—­ "

“Martin Ogleby!” interrupted Carton in surprise.

“Yes, Martin Ogleby.  He hangs about the Montmartre and the Futurist, all those joints.  Say—­I’ve been thinking a heap since this case of mine came up.  I wonder whether it was all on the level—­with me.  I gave the money.  But was that a stall?  Perhaps they tried to get back.  Perhaps she played into their hands—­I saw her watching the sports, there, and believe me, there are some swell lookers.  Oh well, I don’t know.  All I know is my part.  I don’t know anything that happened after that.  I can’t tell what I don’t know, can I, Mr. Carton?”

“Not very well,” smiled the prosecutor.  “But you can tell us anything you suspect.”

“I don’t know what I suspect.  I was only a part of the machine.  Only after I read that she disappeared, I began to think there might have been some funny business—­I don’t know.”

Eager as we were, we could only accept this unsatisfactory explanation of the whereabouts of Betty.

“After all, I was only a part,” reiterated Jack.  “You better ask Ike—­that’s all.”

Just then the telephone buzzed.  Carton was busy and Kennedy, who happened to be nearest, answered it.  I fancied that there was a puzzled expression on his face, as he placed his hand over the transmitter and said to Carton, “Here—­it’s for you.  Take it.  By the way, where’s that thing I left down here for recording voices?”

“Here in my desk.  But you took the cylinder with you.”

“Haven’t you got another?  Don’t you ever use them for dictating letters?”

Carton nodded and sent his stenographer to get a new one.

“Just a minute, please,” cut in Kennedy.  “Mr. Carton will be here in a few moments, now.”

Carton took the telephone and placed his hand over it, until, with a nod from Kennedy as he affixed the machine, he answered.

“Yes—­this is the District Attorney,” we heard him answer.  “What?  Rubano?  Why you can’t talk to him.  He’s a convicted man.  Here?  How do you know he’s here?  No—­I wouldn’t let you talk to him if he was.  Who are you, anyway?  What’s that—­you threaten him—­you threaten me?  You’ll get us both, will you?  Well, I want to tell you, you can go plumb—­the deuce!  The fellow’s cut himself off!”

As Carton finished, a peculiar smile played about Rubano’s features.  “I expected that, but not so soon,” he said quietly.  “New York’ll be no place for me, Mr. Carton, after this.  You’ve got to keep your word and smuggle me out.  South Africa, you know—­ you promised.”

“I’ll keep my word, Rubano, too,” assured Carton.  “The nerve of that fellow.  Where’s Kennedy?”