"Lord," he said in surprise. "I'm going crazy. Two hours in a trance. Now for work. I wonder what the operatives will have to report? They ought to have something. I wonder," he added, peering under the fine drizzle of snow, "I wonder where the nearest telephone is located? Another block, I guess." His brain gathered up the skeins of the case as he hurried along. Fingerprints, plaster-casts, smooth bullets, locked rooms and a raven-black magpie, trooped into their proper formation. He dwelt longest on the telephone information he had gathered in the library. The case seemed bound up in whispering wires and broken connections which might be spliced together with patience and hard work. The whole matter, from the call of the millionaire, down to the clew discovered in comparing the finger prints at Detective Headquarters, was a city-spread network of telephone connections which had to be traced back to an elusive individual who flitted like a shadow or a whirling dervish across the detective's vision. He reached the drug-store, paused outside, glanced up and down the white-robed street, then pressed the door open and stamped inside. He found a nickel. Dropping this in the slot and closing the booth, he asked Central for his office phone. The connection was made with Harrigan on the other end. "What's new in the Stockbridge case?" asked Drew in a whisper. He listened. He grew rigid as the faithful operative summed up the entire series of reports. There were six of them. The last was from Delaney. "Hang up!" the detective almost shouted in his eagerness. "Hang up, Harrigan, and let me get him." Finding a quarter instead of a nickel, Drew dropped it in the large slot and jiggled the receiver's hook until Central answered. "Get me Gramercy Hill 9764!" he exclaimed. "Quick! 9764 Gramercy Hill!" "That's her number," he said aloud. "Loris Stockbridge's number. It must be her number. I haven't forgotten that, have I?" The time consumed in getting the connection seemed endless. Drew lifted one damp sole from the floor of the booth and then the other. The receiver's diaphragm clicked finally. "Hello!" he snapped. "Hello, who's this?" He waited a full second. "This Delaney?" he asked. "Who?" he added. "Oh! you're the maid! Well get me Miss Stockbridge or Mr. Delaney. Yes, Delaney. D-e-l-a-n-e-y!" "This Delaney? ... No! ... Who?... Nichols? ... Harry Nichols? Hello, Nichols! ... Is Delaney there?" The big operative's voice sounded with a rasp on the wire. "What's the news?" asked Drew. "What's that you've been telling Harrigan? Something about a coffin? A coffin? What--a casket? A hardwood casket. I'll be right up! I'm coming!"