“Let’s get this in readiness then, and if you get any calls have them switched up to this instrument, so that when you talk, you can hold the receiver handy to the horn.”

“Young feller, I think you must know more about this business than you’ve a right to.  Just keep your hands above the table—­I think I’ll frisk you!”

“No need,” snapped Shirley with a smile in his eyes, and the automatic revolver was drawn and covering the detective before he could reach forward.  “But I have no designs on you.  You will have to work quicker than that with some people in this case.”

He slid the weapon across the table to the other who snatched it anxiously.

“If a call comes and you don’t recognize the voice at once, please ask the party to come closer to the ’phone, to speak louder—­listen, there is the bell now!  Get it connected here at once!”

The surprised superintendent, fearing that after all he might miss some good lead, yielded to his professional curiosity against his professional prejudices.  He bawled down the hall.

“Switch on up here, Mike.  I’ll talk.”  He caught up the instrument, as Shirley dropped to his knees beside him, to swing the horn into place.

“What’s that?” he shouted over the wire.  “Yes, shure it is—­ What’s that you say?—­I don’t get you, cull—­You want to speak to the girl?—­What girl?—­Talk louder.  Hire a hall!—­Say, I ain’t no mind reader!  Speak up.”

Over the instrument came the phrase once more:  “Can you hear me now?”

It was the man’s voice!  Shirley was exultant.

“Yes, I hear you.  What do you want?”

“I want to call for my sister, if you’re going to let her go.  I want—­”

An inspiration prompted Shirley to press down the prongs of the receiver.  The connection was stopped, and the superintendent turned upon him angrily.

“You spoiled that, you nut!  We was just about to find out who her brother was—­say, who are you, anyway?”

“There, don’t you worry.  That makes another call certain.  Don’t you see?  That’s what I’m playing for.  But here comes Van Cleft, who will tell you I am all right.”

The millionaire entered the hallway before any serious altercation could arise.  He greeted Shirley warmly and introduced him to Pat Cleary.  The man was mollified.

“Well, I’m Captain Cronin’s right bower, and I thinks as how this guy is the joker of the deck trying to make a dirty deuce out of me.  But, if you want to see the girl, she’s right upstairs.  His work was a little speedy on first acquaintance.  Nick, keep your eyes on this machine, for we may get another call on this floor —­This way gentlemen.  Watch your step, for the hallway’s dark.”

The girl was imprisoned in a windowless room on the second floor.  As the door opened, Shirley beheld a pitiful sight.  Attired in the finery of the Rialto, she lay prone upon a couch in the center of the dingy room, sobbing hysterically.  Her blonde hair was disheveled, her features wan and distorted from her paroxysms of fear and grief.  Like a frightened animal, she sprang to her feet as they entered the room, retreating to the wall, her trembling hands spread as though to brace her from falling.