“There should be none. The circuit is not broken.” “Did you hear any unusual sound after making the connection, as if the telephone had been dropped, or as if something occurred?” “I did not. I will try to get the party.” “Do so.” Nick waited and heard the operator cry repeatedly: “Hello! Hello! Hello!” No answer--still no answer. No sound so much as suggesting what had occurred, what fateful deed had been done, or what horror might then be in progress, whence the mysterious telephone call had come. The stillness over the wire was like that of death itself. Had death, indeed, stilled the voice heard for a fleeting moment by the detective, the voice that had uttered his name, as if a cry of appeal had been cut short when it left the lips of the speaker? The operator spoke again. “Mr. Carter.” “Well?” “There is something wrong. The circuit still is complete, but I can get no reply. The person who called you up evidently has left the telephone, but has not hung up the receiver.” “Were you asked to hold the wire?” “No.” “Can you find out who called, what number, or where the telephone is located?” “I will try.” “Do so, please, and notify me immediately.” “I will, sir.” Nick replaced his telephone on the library desk, then turned quickly to Chick. “Have Danny here with the touring car as soon as possible,” he directed, referring to his chauffeur. “You had better get ready to accompany me.” “You are going----” “To the residence, office, or whatever the quarters may be, of the party who telephoned,” Nick interrupted. “The circumstances are decidedly ominous. We’ll find out why the milk is in the coconut.” “I’m with you,” Chick declared, hastening to carry out the instructions given him. Ten minutes brought the report Nick was awaiting. He then hurried through the hall, seizing his hat and overcoat, and rejoined Chick in the touring car, which had arrived at the curbing only a moment before. “Great guns!” Chick exclaimed, upon hearing the terse directions Nick had given to Danny. “The Clayton residence, eh? Not that of Chester Clayton, our old friend and former client?” “Yes, the same,” said Nick, now looking ominously grim and determined. “He no longer is running the Hotel Westgate, however, as when we twice served him so successfully. He now is in the banking and brokerage business with his wealthy father-in-law. The firm was established soon after his marriage with Clara Langham.” “I know about that,” Chick replied. “But can Clayton again be up against trouble? What more have you learned?” “Only that the phone call came from his residence,” Nick rejoined. “It is one of the most costly in Riverside Drive. Something is wrong there. The exchange operator stated again that the receiver still is off the telephone hook.” “By Jove, that does appear decidedly ominous, Nick, in view of what you heard--a sound like the crack of a revolver.”