That afternoon I had an idea, called up Anne Hennessey and asked her to meet me at the Gilt Edge for supper. She came and afterward in my room at Galway’s I told her—I had to, but she’s true-blue and I knew it—and she agreed to help. She was to come to the Exchange the next morning, call up Cokesbury and say she was Mrs. Fowler, who wanted to bid him good-bye before he left. While she spoke—imitating Mrs. Fowler—I was to listen. We did it—though she’d have lost her job if she’d been found out—and I heard the clerk tell her that Mr. Cokesbury wasn’t in his office, that he didn’t know where she could find him, and that it was very little use trying to get him on the phone as he was so much occupied prior to his departure. When Anne came out of the booth I was crying. I guess I never before in my life had my nerves as strung up as they were then. It wasn’t long after that that I had a call from Babbitts. He’d been able to do nothing. When he heard of my last attempt he said: "He’s not answering any calls at all now. His own mother couldn’t get him. It’s no use trying that line any more. We’ve got to think up some other way." That was Wednesday—I had only three days. Three days and I hadn’t an idea how to do it. Three days and Jack Reddy was waiting indictment in Bloomington jail. We couldn’t stop Cokesbury going or get anybody else to stop him unless we could light on something more definite than a hello girl’s suspicions. XII Thursday afternoon I was sitting in the Exchange, feeling as if the bottom had fallen out of the world. I hadn’t given up yet—I’m not the giving-up kind—but I _couldn’t_ think of anything else to do. I’d tossed on my bed all night thinking, I’d dressed thinking, I’d tried to eat thinking, I’d put in the plugs and made the connections thinking—and nothing would come. Two days more—two days more—two days more—those three words kept going through my head as if they were strung on an endless chain. And then—isn’t it always that way in life? Just when you’re ready to throw up the sponge and say you’re beaten, Bang—it comes! It came in the shape of a New York call for Azalea. Like a dream, for I was pretty nearly all in, I could hear the operator’s voice: "That you, Longwood? Give me Azalea, 383." And then me answering: "All right. Azalea 383. Wait a minute." I plugged in and heard that queer grating sound as if the wires were rubbing against each other: "Hello, New York. All right for Azalea 383." And then a woman’s voice, clear and small. "Here’s your party. Just a minute. There you are—Azalea 383." Then a man’s voice far away as if it might be in Mars: "Hello, is that Azalea 383?" "Yep—the Azalea Garage," that was close and plain. "This is Mr. Cokesbury’s butler——" Believe _me_, I came to life. "Cokesbury, Cokesbury of Cokesbury Lodge—get it?" "Yep." "I’ve a message for Miner—the manager." "Fire away, I’m Miner."