"She hasn't left her room, sir. Mr. Nichols called. The Red Cross people called. There's been lots of callers, sir, but she hasn't appeared, sir. It's early, though." Drew glanced at his watch. "That's all," he said. "You may go." The door closed softly as the valet bowed, replaced his hat and passed out without glancing back. "A good servant," said Drew, rising and kneeling down beside the cage. "Now, Delaney," he added tersely. "Now, old sleepy head, we have the key to the case locked here. I don't doubt but that you unconsciously struck the right clew when you bawled your little hymn. You said, 'Ah, Singing.' Now couldn't that be Ossining?" "By God, Chief, it could!" "Or, more likely, Ah! Sing Sing!" "Who said that?" "The bird!" "But who taught the bird?" "Nobody taught it! It might have been the last thing said by Stockbridge--just before he was shot." "And the bird repeated it--to us?" "Certainly! A parrot or a magpie is a living phonograph. They reproduce a sound, at times, without any idea of knowing what they are saying. This bird may have been so frightened by the shot which was fired in the library, that it recalled the words used by Stockbridge before the shot was fired. These words, in my opinion, tell us that the millionaire was 'phoning to some individual, probably the whispering-voiced man. This individual and Ah, Sing! or Ah, Sing Sing! or Ah, Singing! or Ossining! are closely allied. Now who of Stockbridge's enemies does that fit?" Drew rose to his feet and dusted his knees. "Is that clear?" he asked. "Clear as mud, Chief! I don't get it yet!" "You will," said the detective, dropping down in his chair and reaching for his papers. "See these," he added, swiveling and darting a quick glance at the bird-cage. "These, Delaney, are a list of the old man's known enemies. I have compiled this list from the secretary's statements, my own newspaper reading, the facts we gained at Morphy's trial, and from what Stockbridge told me in the library before he was slain." Drew counted the list with a steady finger. "There's seven," he said. "Is that all! I thought there was more 'an that!" "No! Seven is the number! He was well hated as you will see. First and foremost we have Mortimer Morphy, who is serving from ten to twenty years in state prison, with other indictments hanging over his iron-gray head. He's the captain of them all. He lacks soul, conscience and heart. 'The Wolf of the Ticker' they used to call him. I had the warden on the wire this morning. He's ready to aid justice to the limit. He says that Morphy, or rather Convict 87313, I think they call them inmates up there, is well and working. He's in charge of the books in the front office." "He'd never keep any books for me!" declared Delaney. Drew nodded. "Me, either," he said. "I have heard too much about his past to trust his future. Stockbridge always feared him." "Does he fit what the black crow said?"