But Carroll got no satisfaction from that source, either. The head waiter maintained that he knew nothing of Felix's whereabouts and hung up the receiver in a manner which was distinctly final, not to say impolite. The very air of mystery that surrounded the missing man was sufficient to incline him to the belief that, after all, there might be something to the idea that Felix was the man he had shot at the night before. In that event, it was practically certain that Lord Wimbledon was the object of the Germans' attention--but that didn't solve the question of where the bomb was to be placed, nor the location of "Conner's." "Just the same," he muttered, half aloud, "I'm going to stick around here to-night." "Why that momentous decision?" came a voice almost at his elbow, a voice which startled and charmed him with its inflection. Looking up, he caught the eyes of the pretty telephone girl, laughing at him. "Talking to yourself is a bad habit," she warned him with a smile which seemed to hold an apology for her brusqueness of the night before, "particularly in your business." "My business?" echoed Dave. "What do you know about that?" "Not a thing in the world--except," and here her voice dropped to a whisper--"except that you are a government detective and that you've discovered something about Lord Wimbledon, probably some plot against His Lordship." "Where--how--what in the world made you think that?" stammered Carroll, almost gasping for breath. "Very simple," replied the girl. "Quite elementary, as Sherlock Holmes used to say. You called the headquarters number every night when you came down--the other girls tipped me off to that, for they know that I'm fond of detective stories. Then everybody around here knows that Felix, the waiter that you inquired about, is really German, though he pretends to be Swiss, and that he, the head waiter, and the pastry cook are thick as thieves." "You'd hardly expect me to say 'Yes,' would you? Particularly as I am supposed to be a government operative." "Now I know you are," smiled the girl. "Very few people use the word 'operative.' They'd say 'detective' or 'agent.' But don't worry, I won't give you away." "Please don't," laughed Carroll, half banteringly, half in earnest, for it would never do to have it leak out that a girl had not only discovered his identity, but his mission. Then, as an after-thought, "Do you happen to know of any hotel or place here in town known as 'Conner's'?" he asked. "Why, of course," was the reply, amazing in its directness. "The manager's name--" But then she halted abruptly, picked up a plug, and said, "What number, please?" into the receiver.