He tossed the camel's-hair brush away, returned to his desk, spread the letter out on a blotter to allow the lower edge to dry, and slumping down in his desk chair, glued his eyes on the secret message, reading it over and over again. “Trick Crang--eh?--ha, ha!” He began to chuckle low; then suddenly his fingers, crooked and curved until they looked like claws, reached out as though to fasten upon some prey at hand. And then he chuckled once more--and then grew somber, and slumped deeper in his chair, and his eyes, brooding, were half closed. “Not to-night,” he muttered. “One job of it to-morrow... squeal like a pair of rats that----” He sat suddenly bolt upright in his chair. It came again---a low tapping on the window; two raps, three times repeated. He rose quickly, crossed the room, opened the door, and stood motionless for a moment peering out into the hall. It was a purely precautionary measure--he had little doubt but that his old housekeeper had long since mounted the stairs and returned to her bed. He stepped rapidly then along the hall, and opened the front door. “That you, Birdie?” he called in a low voice. A man's form appeared from the shadow of the stoop. “Sure!” the man answered. “Come in!” Doctor Crang said tersely. He led the way back into the consulting room, and slumped down again in his chair. “Well?” he demanded. “Peters arrived all right,” Birdie reported. “He registered at the Bayne-Miloy Hotel, and he's there now.” “Good!” grunted Crang. For a full five minutes he remained silent and without movement in his chair, apparently utterly oblivious of the other, who stood, shifting a little awkwardly from foot to foot, on the opposite side of the desk. Then Crang spoke--more to himself than to Birdie. “He'll be anxious, of course, and growing more so,” he said. “He might make a break of some kind. I'll have to fix that. I'm not ready yet. What?” Birdie, from staring inanely at the wall, came to himself with a sudden start at what he evidently interpreted as a direct question. “Yes--sure!” he said hurriedly. “No--I mean, no, you're not ready.” Crang glared at the man contemptuously. “What the hell do you know about it?” he inquired caustically. He picked up the telephone directory, studied it for a moment, then, reaching for the desk telephone, asked for his connection. Presently the Bayne-Miloy Hotel answered him, and he asked for Mr. R. L. Peters' room. A moment more and a voice reached him over the phone.