With a hotel telephone girl tact is more important than even the knowledge of wire-knitting.  It was the woman’s voice which he had heard at the hospital.  Captain Cronin was anxious to speak to Mr. Williams, who was calling on Mr. Hepburn!  With the biggest jolt of this day of surprises Shirley disconnected and whistled.  Again he laughed—­with that grim chuckle which was so characteristic of his supreme battling mood!  They had found the trail even quicker than he had expected.  Fortunate it was that he had not mentioned his own name in telephoning from the hospital to Howard.  Not a wire was safe from these mysterious eaves-droppers now.  He hurried into a business suit, and left the hotel, to walk over Thirty-fourth Street to the studio of his friend, Hammond Bell.  Here he was admitted, to find the portrait-painter finishing a solitary chafing-dish supper.

“Delighted, Monty!  Join me in the encore on this creamed chicken and mushrooms!”

“Too rich for my primitive blood, Hammond.  I’m in a hurry to get a favor.”

“I’ve received enough at your hands—­say the word.”

“Simply this:  I want to experiment with sound waves.  I remembered that once in a while some of these wild Bohemian friends of yours warbled post-impressionist love-songs into your phonograph.  It stood the strain, and so must be a good one.  It is too late now to get one in a shop; will you lend me the whole outfit, with the recording attachment as well, for to-night and to-morrow?”

“The easiest thing you know.  Let’s slide it into this grip—­you can carry the horn.”

Three minutes later Shirley made his exit, and soon was shaking hands with Van Cleft in his own room at the hotel.  He sketched his idea hurriedly, as he adjusted the instrument on the dressing-table near the telephone.

“When the call comes, be sure to say:  ’Get closer, I can’t hear you.’  That’s the method, and it’s so simple it is almost silly.”  They were barely ready when the bell warned them.  At Van Cleft’s reply, when the call for “Mr. Williams” Shirley pushed the horn close to the telephone receiver.  Van Cleft twisted it, so as to give the best advantage, and demanded that the speaker come closer to the ’phone.

“Can you hear me now?” asked the feminine voice.  “Do you hear me now?”

“No, speak louder.  This is Mr. Williams.  Speak up.  I can’t understand you.”  The voice was petulant and so distinct that even Shirley could hear it, as he knelt by the side of the phonograph.  Again Van Cleft insisted on his deafness.  There was the suggestion of a break in the voice which brought to Shirley’s eyes the sparkle of a presentiment of success.  At last Van Cleft admitted that he could hear.

“Well, you fool, I’ve a message for your friend Mr. Van Cleft.”

“Which one?” was the innocent inquiry, as he forgot for an instant that now he was the sole bearer of that name.