"Well, did you get him?" asked Porter.

"No," said the secretary; "he isn't in Truesdale."

"Where is he?"

"I couldn't find out. His stenographer wouldn't tell me."

"Wouldn't tell you, eh?" said Porter. "Just get Truesdale again; I'll talk
with that young man myself."

When he began talking his voice was mild and persuasive, and Shields and
McNally listened expectantly. As the minutes went by and he did not get
the information he wanted, it became evident that the cocksure young man
at the other end of the line was rasping through what was left of Porter's
patience as an emery wheel does through soft iron. As might be expected,
the process was accompanied with a shower of sparks. Porter's voice rose
and swelled in volume until at last he shouted, "You don't care who I am?
Why, you damned little fool--" and then he stopped, for a sharp click told
him that he was cut off, even from the central office, and he was not
angry enough to go on swearing at an unresponsive telephone.

For a moment he stood biting his lip in a nervous effort to control
himself, then he joined feebly in the laughter the other two men had
raised against him. A moment later he pulled out his watch, and turning to
McNally said:--

"Keep your eye on Weeks, will you? I'm going to Truesdale on the
eleven-thirty to find Black. Good-by."