“Not at present,” Nick insisted. “Not as long as they see a ghost of a chance of forcing you to comply with their demands. That would be the worst step they could take. Have no fear of it, Mr. Madden. They will not kill the goose from which they hope to get a golden egg.” “What do you advise?” Mr. Madden asked gravely. “I want you to give me entire charge of the case.” “I would demur over it, Nick, if that proposition came from any other man. Coming from you--well, I know I cannot do better than accept it.” “I think so, too.” “That settles it, then.” “Very good,” said Nick. “You must, therefore, take no steps beyond what I may direct. In imposing that condition, Mr. Madden, I have only a word to add. I will do all that you could do, or the entire metropolitan police, to trace and recover your daughter. I will also accomplish it before she suffers any serious harm, even though I am finally forced to throw up my hands and pay a ransom for her safe return.” “I understand, Nick, and have absolute faith in your judgment,” Mr. Madden said feelingly. “I give you entire charge of the case. You evidently think, I infer, that we shall hear from her abductors.” “Hear from them!” Nick exclaimed, smiling. “Don’t you doubt that for a moment, Mr. Madden. You will hear from them much sooner than you expect, providing I have sized up the case correctly.” “Well, possibly.” “What would you do,” Nick added, “if you were engaged in such knavery? Your first step would be to prevent too much publicity, too great activity by the police, both of which could best be insured by communicating promptly with an anxious parent and stating the precise situation. You will hear from these rascals within an hour, unless I am much mistaken, either by telephone or----” Nick’s prediction was verified even while he was speaking. The bell of a telephone on the library table interrupted him. He laughed in somewhat sinister fashion, and held up his hand. “Keep your seat, Mr. Madden,” said he. “I will see what’s doing. This may be the first gun on the skirmish line.” “Gee! My money goes on that,” put in Patsy. Nick turned and picked up the telephone while speaking. Removing the receiver, he called hurriedly, almost perfectly imitating Mr. Madden’s voice: “Hello! Hello!” A woman’s voice came over the wire. It was a cold, curt, sinister voice, with a ring of metallic hardness denoting will power, decision, and a sort of bulldog aggressiveness: “I want Mr. John Madden. Is he at home?” “Where in thunder have I heard that voice?” The question flashed through the detective’s mind the instant he heard it. Still imitating that of the venerable millionaire, Nick quickly answered: “I am he. John Madden is talking. Who are you?” The response came with more threatening intonation: “Never mind who I am. You keep your trap closed, and let me do the talking. If you butt in with any questions, I’ll hang up the receiver. Do you get me?” “Yes,” said Nick.