Later Greg heard him say: "I called you up because you know this town. I want the address of a private madhouse--well, sanitarium if you like it better. At once. To-night. A high-class place, expensive and all that. Well, please find out for me and let me know quickly at my apartment. And get Abanez on the wire if you can, and tell him to come to me." Greg gasped inwardly. The man's boldness staggered him. No need to ask who the madhouse was for! Before he could collect his wits de Socotra was out of the booth. Greg hastily put his glass to his lips. "Damn you, have you nothing better to do than drink slops!" cried de Socotra furiously. "Come on!" This was nuts to the soda-clerk. He came to the door to see the last of this diverting pair. By the time they started, Greg had made up his mind what to do. A few blocks farther up the street--they were in the Forties now--he saw a garage and pulled up at the door. De Socotra with a violent oath demanded to know what he was stopping for. "Out of gas," said Greg laconically. De Socotra swore and stamped on the pavement like a man beside himself. Greg stared at him, affecting a stupid wonder. A trolley car came up the avenue. De Socotra tossed Greg a bill without looking at it and running out in the street swung himself aboard the car. For an agonized instant of indecision Greg debated whether he would do better to jump back in his cab, and endeavor to beat de Socotra to the Stickney Arms, or stop and telephone. But the car was traveling fast, and de Socotra could surely get another cab at the Broadway intersection. Greg ran into the garage to telephone. Ages seemed to pass while he was getting the apartment house. He ground his teeth and prayed for patience. As a matter of fact there was no undue delay. He asked for Señorita de Socotra, and there was another fifteen seconds of agony before a feminine voice answered on the wire--not the crisp tones of Amy, alas! but the languorous Bianca. Greg cursed himself for his folly in supposing that they would allow Amy to answer the 'phone. "I want to speak to Señorita de Socotra," he said. "Who are you?" asked Bianca. In an evil moment Greg answered "Abanez." In his excitement he forgot that Bianca and Abanez were cronies. A flood of Spanish answered him. He could only say lamely: "Yes, I know, but I wanted to speak to Amèlie." "I don't know of whom you are speaking," the voice said in cold hard English. "You have the wrong number," and click! the connection was cut. By violently agitating the receiver Greg succeeded in getting the operator at the Stickney Arms. He asked for Frank, the hall-boy. This was what he ought to have done in the beginning. He had only wasted a precious two minutes, and put Bianca on her guard. "This you, Frank? This is the fellow who passes you notes for the little Spanish lady, do you get me? I gave you a little package this afternoon." "Sure, I know you, boss."