Drew studied the entire situation before he granted permission. Loris and Nichols were framed between the silken portières. The captain held his army regulation revolver at his hip. Loris leaned forward with her dark eyes smoldering and intent. The blood had left her cheeks. They were white and tersely set. She seemed older to Drew. He smiled reassuringly, dropped his gun to his hip, pressed it against the prisoner and shoved him toward the 'phone as a "B-r-r-r-r-" sounded above the lifting roar of Delaney's voice in the depths of the great mansion. The room became charged and surcharged with electricity. A crackling sounded as Drew's feet glided inch by inch over the silk rug. The storm outside whined and synchronized with the rise and fall of the great voice shouting "Hello! Hello! Hello! Hello, you!" The trouble-man turned. His hand reached upward and lifted the hard-rubber receiver from the hook. His lids fluttered toward Loris. His eyes softened with memories. "I'm glad I didn't do it!" he hissed across the room. "Good-by, lady--good-by!" "Be careful!" snapped Drew, pressing the revolver firmly against the prisoner's right side. "Be careful! This is a hair trigger!" The trouble-man smiled a twisted, wan smile as he turned his head toward the transmitter and said huskily: "Hello! Hello! You big copper! Shout on! See how loud you can curse me! That's it. That--is--it!" Drew heard Delaney's voice rise in indignation. The taunt had spurned him to greater effort. The metallic diaphragm of the receiver roared and clicked. It echoed the voice. It stopped. It vibrated again. It reached a reed-like tune of high-pitched anger. The prisoner closed his eyes and stiffened. He pressed the receiver directly over his ear. He drew back on the chain and to one side. Drew's face darkened with suspicion. It was too late. The detective had time to spring away as a cone of lurid light and flame shot out from the telephone diaphragm and splashed across the prisoner's set face. A sharp detonation racked the perfumed air of the room. Smoke wreathed about the astonished Inspector's head, and floated upward toward the ventilator. Cuthbert Morphy's muscles relaxed. He spun, sank to his knees, then pitched forward across the rug with a bullet in his brain. Drew untwisted the chain with a wrist flip, sprang forward toward the cheval-glass, and stamped his foot down upon the smoking telephone receiver as if it were the head of a rattlesnake. He turned with clear light striking out from his eyes. He nodded toward the leaning form of the girl and the erect one of the captain. He divined in seconds how the murder of Montgomery Stockbridge had been accomplished. The full series of events and clues flashed through his brain. It was like an orderly array seen at a picture show.