"Hallo!" he said.
"Someone named Brisley, sir, wishes--"
"Put him through to me here."
"Very good, sir."
A short interval, then:
"Yes?" said Monte Irvin.
"My name is Brisley. I have a message for Mr. Monte Irvin."
"Monte Irvin speaking. Anything to report, Brisley?"
Irvin's deep, rich voice was not entirely under control.
"Yes, sir. The lady drove by taxicab from Prince's Gate to Albemarle
Street."
"Ah!"
"Went up to chambers of Sir Lucien Pyne and was admitted."
"Well?"
"Twenty minutes later came out. Lady was with Sir Lucien. Both walked
around to old Bond Street. The Honorable Quentin Gray--"
"Ah!" breathed Irvin.
"--Overtook them there. He got out of a cab. He joined them. All three
up to apartments of a professional crystal-gazer styling himself
Kazmah 'the dream-reader.'"
A puzzled expression began to steal over the face of Monte Irvin. At
the sound of the telephone bell he had paled somewhat. Now he began to
recover his habitual florid coloring.
"Go on," he directed, for the speaker had paused.
"Seven to ten minutes later," resumed the nasal voice, "Mr. Gray came
down. He hailed a passing cab, but man refused to stop. Mr. Gray
seemed to be very irritable."
The fact that the invisible speaker was reading from a notebook he
betrayed by his monotonous intonation and abbreviated sentences, which
resembled those of a constable giving evidence in a police court.
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