These were the thoughts that jumped into Mr. Foxman's mind as he stepped out of the booth, and in the same instant, while he was stepping back in again, he had the answer for the puzzle. Since he meant to make a burnt offering of Singlebury, why not cook him to a cinder and be done with it, and be done with Singlebury too? A method of doing this was the inspiration that came on the threshold of the telephone booth; and when immediately he undertook to put the trick into effect he found it, in its preliminary stages, working with that same satisfactory promise of fulfillment that had marked all his other undertakings, shaping into the main undertaking. For example, when he called up the Godey Arms Hotel and asked for Mr. Singlebury, which was the thing he next did, the telephone operator of the hotel exchange told him Mr. Singlebury had gone out for the evening, leaving word behind that he would be back at midnight. Now that exactly suited Mr. Foxman. Had Singlebury been in he had meant, on the pretext of desiring to question him later upon some trivial point in the big story, to have Singlebury be at some appointed telephone rendezvous shortly after midnight. But he knew now with reasonable certainty where Singlebury would be during that hour. This knowledge simplified matters considerably; it saved him from the bother of setting the stage so elaborately. Without giving his name to the young woman at the hotel switchboard he asked her to tell Singlebury, upon his return, that a gentleman would call him up on business of importance some time between twelve and one o'clock. She said she would remember the message and, thanking her, he rang off. Well content, he went to a theatre where a farce was playing, sat through the performance and, going back again to his club after the performance, had a late supper in the grill. At twelve-forty-five he finished his coffee. Entering the telephone booth he got first the Godey Arms upon the wire, and then, after a moment, the waiting and expectant Singlebury. In his mind all evening Mr. Foxman had been carefully rehearsing just what he would say and just how he would say it. Into his voice he put exactly the right strain of hurried, sharp anxiety as he snapped: "Is that you, Singlebury?" "Yes, it's Singlebury," came back the answer. "That's you, Mr. Foxman, isn't it? I rather imagined it would be you from what----" Mr. Foxman broke in on him. "Singlebury, there's hell to pay about that story you wrote for me. Somebody talked--there was a leak somewhere." "On my word of honour, Mr. Foxman," said the jostled Singlebury, "it wasn't I. I obeyed your orders to the letter and----"