Littimer nodded. Evidently he had heard most of the story. Henson was
silent for some little time. He was working out something in his mind.
His smile was not a pleasant one; it was nothing like his bland platform
smile, for instance.

"Give me that black book," he said. "Do you know how to work the
telephone?"

"I daresay I could learn. It doesn't look hard."

"Well, that is an extension telephone on the table yonder worked in
connection with the main instrument in the library. I like to have my own
telephone, as it is of the greatest assistance to me. Turn that handle
two or three times and put that receiver to your ear. When the Exchange
answers tell them to put you on to O,017 Gerrard."

Littimer obeyed mechanically, but though he rang and rang again no answer
came. With a snarling curse Henson dragged himself out of bed and crossed
the room, with limbs that shook under him.

He twirled the handle round passionately.

"You always were a fool," he growled, "and you always will be."

Still no reply came. Henson whirled angrily, but he could elicit no
response. He kicked the instrument over and danced round it impotently.
Littimer had never seen him in such a raging fury before. The language of
the man was an outrage, filthy, revolting, profane. No yelling, drunken
Hooligan could have been more fluent, more luridly diffuse.