Now the bell of the telephone is to me like the trumpet to the old war horse. And hearing it that way, tingling in the quiet of the big, deserted house, I got a flash that any one wanting to talk to Miss Maitland and knowing the habits of the family would choose that hour. There was a ’phone in the lower story—in a closet at the end of the hall—and the extension one was upstairs in a sort of curtained recess off the main corridor just outside my door. I rose off the sofa as if lifted by a charge of dynamite and slid for the stairs. As I sprinted up I heard the door of Miss Maitland’s study open. The upper hall was deserted and I dashed noiseless into that alcove place, one hand lifting off the receiver as soft as a feather, the other pressed against my mouth to smother the sound of my breathing. On the floor below Esther Maitland had just connected; I got her first sentence, quiet and clear as if she was in the room with me: "Yes. This is Grasslands." A man’s voice answered: "That you, Esther?" I could tell she recognized it, for instantly hers changed, showed fear and a sort of pleading: "Oh, why do you call me up here? I told you not to." "My dear girl, it’s all right—I know they’re all out at this hour." "The servants—I’m afraid of them—and there’s a new nursery governess come." "I know. I met her in the woods that day. Did you?" "Of course I did. How could I help it? I said I’d been bathing. We mustn’t go there again—it’s much better to write." The man gave a laugh that was good-humored and easy: "Don’t take it so hard. There’s not the slightest need to be worried. I called you up to say everything was O. K." Her answer came with a deep, sighing breath: "It may be now—but how can we tell? The first excitement’s dying down but that doesn’t mean they’re not doing anything. Don’t think for a moment, because it’s worked right so far, that we’re out of the woods." "I’m wise to all that, I know them better than you do. And the fellow that knows has got it all over the fellow that doesn’t. Watchful waiting—that’s our motto." "Very well, then _let_ it be watchful. And don’t call me up unless it’s urgent. I can see you in town when I go in. I won’t talk any more. Good-by." I heard the stillness of a dead wire and then before I let myself think, flew into my room, found a pad and pencil and wrote it down word for word. CHAPTER IX—GOOD HUNTING IN BERKELEY Two days after his interview with Suzanne, Mr. Larkin came to Berkeley and took a room at the Berkeley Arms. He registered as Henry Childs, and described himself to the clerk as a plumber, who, having had a prosperous year, was looking for a bit of land upon which to build a bungalow.