CHAPTER XXXI TONY DOES HIS BIT Things happened very rapidly in Jim Barrison’s rooms after he had made his hasty departure. Tony Clay stood for a moment, holding the telegram in his hand; and then, tossing it to Willie Coster, he made a jump for the telephone. There he called Spring 3100, and, getting his number, demanded Inspector Lowry in a voice that might have been the president’s for authority, and a Bloomingdale inmate’s for agitation. “Now, now,” came the deep, official tones from the other end of the wire; “hold your horses, my friend! Is it an accident or a murder?” “It’s probably both,” stormed Tony. He had the inspector on the wire, and was pouring out his tale, trying his best to keep himself coherent with the ever-present picture in his brain of Jim in trouble. Tony was not one of the most inspired of detectives, but he was as good a friend as ever a man had, and he loved Jim. It happened that Lowry had a weakness for Jim himself. Also, the story told by Tony was, though wild, certainly one to make any police official sit up and take notice. Ferrati’s, as has already been suggested, was not looked upon favorably by the police. He told Tony Clay that he would come up to Ferrati’s himself with a couple of men. “And we’ll stop for you,” he said, meaning to be most kind and condescending. Tony retorted hotly: “I’m leaving for Ferrati’s now! I can’t wait for the police department to wake up!” He hung up viciously and turned to face Willie Coster, also Tara, who, though less demonstrative than these Occidentals, was clearly about as anxious as either of them. “Tara, get a taxi!” said Tony briefly. “Immediate, honorable sir!” Tara’s alacrity was rather pathetic. Willie Coster looked after him with a kindly nod. “D’you know,” he remarked, in a low tone, “that Jap is just as keen to help Barrison as we are. You’ll find when we start out after him he won’t let himself be left behind.” Tony turned to scowl at him in bewilderment. “When ‘we’ start out after him!” he repeated. “You aren’t expecting to spring anything of that sort, are you?” Willie Coster looked at him a moment only. Then his small, pinched face blazed suddenly into fiery red. “Say,” he snapped, “do you think you’re the only he-man on the premises? And do you suppose that no one else is capable of a friendly feeling for Barrison, and a natural wish to help him out of a mess, except just your blessed self? Because, if that’s what you think, you forget it—quick!” Tony felt abject, and would have apologized, too, but a snorting arose in the street below them, and Tara announced the taxi which, in some inscrutable way, he had maneuvered there in more than record time. Tony recalled what Willie Coster had said. “Tara,” he said abruptly, “you are fond of Mr. Barrison, I know.” “Yes, sir,” Tara said.