Kennedy answered the call himself, but the conversation was brief
and, to me, unenlightening, until he hung up the receiver.

"Dorgan--the Boss," he exclaimed, "has just found a detectaphone
in his private dining-room at Gastron's."

At once I saw the importance of the news and for the moment it
obscured even the case of Betty Blackwell.

Dorgan was the political boss of the city at that time, apparently
entrenched, with an organization that seemed impregnable. I knew
him as a big, bullnecked fellow, taciturn to the point of
surliness, owing his influence to his ability to "deliver the
goods" in the shape of graft of all sorts, the archenemy of
Carton, a type of politician who now is rapidly passing.

"Carton wants to see us immediately at his office," added Craig,
jamming his hat on his head. "Come on."

Without waiting for further comment or answer from me, Kennedy,
caught by the infectious excitement of Carton's message, dashed
from our apartment and a few minutes later we were whirling
downtown on the subway.

"You know, I suppose," he whispered rather hoarsely above the
rumble and roar of the train, but so as not to be overheard, "that
Dorgan always has kept a suite of rooms at Gastron's, on Fifth
Avenue, for dinners and conferences."

I nodded. Some of the things that must have gone on in the secret