"The 'phone's been ringing every minute, Mr. Hart." She looked at the architect with mingled aloofness and curiosity. "They were mostly calls from the papers, and some of the reporters are in there now, waiting. What shall I say to 'em?" "Say I am out of town," Hart ordered, giving the usual formula when reporters called at the office. Then he went back to his private room and shut the door. He dropped the bulky newspaper on the floor and tried to think what he should do. There were some memoranda on the desk of alterations which he was to make in a country house, and these he took up to examine. Soon his desk telephone rang, and when he put the receiver to his ear, Graves's familiar tones came whispering over the line. The contractor talked through the telephone in a subdued voice, as if he thought to escape eavesdropping at the central office by whispering. "Is that you, Hart? Where have you been? I've been trying to get you all the morning. Say, can't you come over here quick?" "What do you want?" the architect demanded sharply. The sound of the man's voice irritated him. "Well, I want a good many things," Graves replied coldly. "I guess we had better get together on this business pretty soon." "You can find me over here the rest of the morning," Hart answered curtly. There was a pause of several seconds, and then the contractor telephoned cautiously:-- "Say, I can't leave just now. That Dutchman's in here pretty drunk, and I don't want him to get loose. Come over, quick!" "All right," the architect muttered dully, hanging up his telephone. He was minded to refuse, but he realized that it would be best to see what was the matter. Some plan of action must be decided upon. Meyer was one of the officers and directors of the Glenmore Hotel Corporation. The architect and a couple of clerks in the contractor's office were the other dummies in this corporation, which had been organized solely to create bonds and stock and to escape personal liability. Hart gathered up the memoranda on his desk, and telling the stenographer that he was going out to Eversley to see the Dixon house, he left the office. As he stepped into the hall, he met Cook, who had just come from the elevator. He nodded to the draughtsman and hailed a descending car. "Say, Hart," Cook said in a quiet voice, "can I have a word with you?" Hart stepped back into the hall and waited to hear what the draughtsman had to say. "I must have been pretty near crazed last night, I guess," Cook began, turning his face away from the architect, "and I said things I had no call to say." "Come in," Hart murmured, unlocking the door to his private office.