"Central," said the attorney, "2241 and 584 B" (or some such numbers)--"Who's that?--All right--Mr. Bellairs--Occidental; the wires are fouled in the other place--Yes, about three minutes--Yes--Yes--Your figure, I am sorry to say--No--I had no authority--Neither more nor less--I have every reason to suppose so--O, Pinkerton, Montana Block--Yes--Yes--Very good, sir--As you will, sir--Disconnect 584 B." Bellairs turned to leave; at sight of me behind him, up flew his hands, and he winced and cringed, as though in fear of bodily attack. "O, it's you!" he cried; and then, somewhat recovered, "Mr. Pinkerton's partner, I believe? I am pleased to see you, sir--to congratulate you on your late success"; and with that he was gone, obsequiously bowing as he passed. And now a madcap humour came upon me. It was plain Bellairs had been communicating with his principal; I knew the number, if not the name. Should I ring up at once? It was more than likely he would return in person to the telephone. "Why should not I dash (vocally) into the presence of this mysterious person, and have some fun for my money?" I pressed the bell. "Central," said I, "connect again 2241 and 584 B." A phantom central repeated the numbers; there was a pause, and then "Two two four one" came in a tiny voice into my ear--a voice with the English sing-song--the voice plainly of a gentleman. "Is that you again, Mr. Bellairs?" it trilled. "I tell you it's no use. Is that you, Mr. Bellairs? Who is that?" "I only want to put a single question," said I, civilly. "Why do you want to buy the _Flying Scud_?" No answer came. The telephone vibrated and hummed in miniature with all the numerous talk of a great city: but the voice of 2241 was silent. Once and twice I put my question; but the tiny sing-song English voice I heard no more. The man, then, had fled--fled from an impertinent question. It scarce seemed natural to me--unless on the principle that the wicked fleeth when no man pursueth. I took the telephone list and turned the number up: "2241, Mrs. Keane, res. 942 Mission Street." And that, short of driving to the house and renewing my impertinence in person, was all that I could do. Yet, as I resumed my seat in the corner of the office, I was conscious of a new element of the uncertain, the underhand, perhaps even the dangerous, in our adventure; and there was now a new picture in my mental gallery, to hang beside that of the wreck under its canopy of sea-birds and of Captain Trent mopping his red brow--the picture of a man with a telephone dice-box to his ear, and at the small voice of a single question struck suddenly as white as ashes.