Helene’s voice was soon on the wire.  Shirley asked for Warren in a gruff tone.

“What do you want?” was that gentleman’s musical inquiry, in the tones which were already so familiar to the criminologist.

“Chief, dis is de Rat.  I wants to meet you down at de Blue Goose on Water Street in half an hour.  Kin you’se come?  It’s important.”

The other was evidently mystified.

“The Rat?  What do you mean?  I don’t know you.  Ring off!”

Shirley heard the other receiver click.  He held the wire, reasoning out the method of the intriguer.  Soon there was a buzz in his ear, and Warren’s voice came to him.  It was droll, this reversal of the original method, which had been so puzzling.

“What number is this?”

“Rector 4471, sir,” answered the criminologist in the best falsetto tone he could muster.  Then he disconnected with a smile.  This was turning the tables with a vengeance.  But he knew that he must be getting away from the den before the possible investigation by Warren or his lieutenant.  There were many things he would have liked to study about the place.  But his curiosity about the telephone had made it impossible for him to remain.  It was a costly mistake, as events were destined to prove!

He hurried out of the compartment, into the tunnel, up the rope and through the window.  He replaced the knotted rope, exactly as it had been before.  He put a few drippings of molten lead from the bubbling pot, under the wash-stand of the bathroom, to carry out the illusion of his work as plumber.  Then he departed from the building, as he had entered.

In ten minutes he was changing his garments in Mike’s plumbing shop, with a fabulous story of the excruciating joke he had played upon a sick friend.  Then he walked rapidly to the doorway at 192 West Forty-first Street.

Back against the wall of this empty store entry, lounged a pleasant-looking young man who puffed at a perfecto.  Shirley stepped in, and in a low tone, said:  “Telephone.”  The other started visibly, and scrutinized the well-groomed club man from head to foot.

“Well, Chief, you’re a surprise.  I never thought you looked like that.  Where will we go?”

“Over to the gambling house a friend of mine runs, just around the corner.  There we can talk in quiet.”

Shirley led the way, restraining the smile which itched to betray his enjoyment of the situation.  The other studied him with sidelong glances of unabated astonishment.  They were soon going up the steps of the Holland Agency, which looked for all the world, with its closed shutters, and quiet front, like a retreat for the worshipers of Dame Fortune.  Cronin fortunately did not believe in signs.  So the young man was not suspicious, even when Shirley gave three knocks upon the door, to be admitted by the sharp-nosed guardian of the portal.

“Tell Cleary to come downstairs, Nick,” said the criminologist.  “I want him to meet a friend of mine.”