“I’ve gotta letter for the district attorney,” said the voice. “I’m to give it to nobody but him. It’s about Banf. He must get it quick, or it’ll be too late.” “Who are you?” demanded Rumson. “Where are you speaking from?” The man at the other end of the wire ignored the questions. “Where’ll Wharton be for the next twenty minutes?” “If I tell you,” parried Rumson, “will you bring the letter at once?” The voice exclaimed indignantly: “Bring nothing! I’ll send it by district messenger. You’re wasting time trying to reach me. It’s the LETTER you want. It tells----” the voice broke with an oath and instantly began again: “I can’t talk over a phone. I tell you, it’s life or death. If you lose out, it’s your own fault. Where can I find Wharton?” “At Delmonico’s,” answered Rumson. “He’ll be there until two o’clock.” “Delmonico’s! That’s Forty-fort Street?” “Right,” said Rumson. “Tell the messenger----” He heard the receiver slam upon the hook. With the light of the hunter in his eyes, he turned to the girl. “They can laugh,” he cried, “but I believe we’ve hooked something. I’m going after it.” In the waiting-room he found the detectives. “Hewitt,” he ordered, “take the subway and whip up to Delmonico’s. Talk to the taxi-starter till a messenger-boy brings a letter for the D. A. Let the boy deliver the note, and then trail him till he reports to the man he got it from. Bring the man here. If it’s a district messenger and he doesn’t report, but goes straight back to the office, find out who gave him the note; get his description. Then meet me at Delmonico’s.” Rumson called up that restaurant and had Wharton come to the phone. He asked his chief to wait until a letter he believed to be of great importance was delivered to him. He explained, but, of necessity, somewhat sketchily. “It sounds to me,” commented his chief, “like a plot of yours to get a lunch up-town.” “Invitation!” cried Rumson. “I’ll be with you in ten minutes.”