"Lordee, son! Are they at it again?" asked Cronin in disgust.

"Yes--overdoing it. One thing is clear, that whoever is behind
this telephone trickery is very clever, and very conceited over
that cleverness. It may be a costly vanity. Yes, information?"

"The call was from Rector 2190-D. The American Sunday School
Organization, sir--It doesn't answer now; the office must be
closed."

Shirley put the instrument down, with a smile on his pursed lips.
He waved a good natured farewell to his friend, as he drew the
cap down over his eyes.

"Look a little happier, Captain. I'll send down some fruit and
a special vintage from our club which has bottled up in it the
sunlight of a dozen years in Southern France. I hope they keep
the telephone wires busy--they may tangle themselves up in their
own spider-web!"

Leaving the hospital, he hurried to the hotel. One of his secret
idiosyncracies was a custom of "living around" at a number of
hotels, under aliases. Maintaining pleasant suites in each, he
kept full supplies of linen and garments, while effectively
blotting out his own identity for "doubling" work.

He was known as "Mr. Hepburn" here, and entering the side door he
was subjected to the curious gaze of only one servant, the operator
of the small elevator. Once in the shelter of his quarters he
rummaged through some scrap-books for data--he found it in a Sunday