He
stopped, went to the telephone and called up the Racquet Club, saying:
"Mr. De Gollyer to the 'phone."
Then he looked at his hand and found he was still clutching a forgotten
hair brush. With a cry at the grotesqueness of the thing, he flung it
from him, watching it go skipping over the polished floor. The voice of
De Gollyer called him.
"Is that you, Jim?" he said, steadying himself. "Come--come to me at
once--quick!"
He could have said no more. He dropped the receiver, overturning the
stand, and began again his caged pacing of the floor.
Ten minutes later De Gollyer nervously slipped into the room. He was a
quick, instinctive ferret of a man, one to whose eyes the hidden life of
the city held no mysteries; who understood equally the shadows that
glide on the street and the masks that pass in luxurious carriages. In
one glance he had caught the disorder in the room and the agitation in
his friend. He advanced a step, balanced his hat on the desk, perceived
the crumpled letter, and, clearing his throat, drew back, frowning and
alert, correctly prepared for any situation.
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