THE TELEPHONE SPEAKS

Slowly the look on his face grew to something hard and round and bright.
His lips tightened--"is that all?--Good-bye!" His voice sounded in the
tube and was gone, and he hung up the receiver. "They make it twenty
thousand--for one hour," he said drily.

Achilles bent forward, his face on fire, his finger pointing to the
Thing.

"They are right there!" said the man. He gave a short laugh--"Can't
trace them that way--we have tried--They've tapped a wire. Central is
after them. But they won't get 'em that way. Sit down and I will talk
to you." He motioned again to the chair and the Greek seated himself,
bending forward a little to catch the murmur and half-incoherent jerks
that the man spoke.

Now and then the Greek nodded, or his dark face lighted; and once or
twice he spoke. But for the most part it was a rapid monologue, told in
breathless words.

The great Philip Harris had no hope that the ignorant man sitting before
him could help him. But there was a curious relief in talking to him;
and as he talked, he found the story shaping itself in his mind--things
related fell into place, and things apart came suddenly together. The
story ran back for years--there had been earlier attempts, but the child
had been guarded with strictest care; and lately they had come to feel
secure. They had thought the band was broken up. The blow had fallen out
of a clear sky. They had not the slightest clue--all day the detectives