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the automatic would bark its riposte of death… .
    Simon was vaguely conscious of the quickening of his pulse. His mind reeled away to those trivial details that
sometimes slip through the voids of an
intolerable suspense—there must be
servants somewhere in the place—but it would only take him three swift movements, before they could
possibly reach the door, to scrawl his
sign manual on the blotter, snatch the crumple
of paper from the wastebasket, and vanish through the open windows into the darkness. …
    And then a bell exploded in the oppressive
atmosphere of the room like a bomb. A telephone bell.
    Its rhythmic double beat sheared through the
silence like a guillotine, cleaving the overstrained chord of the spell
with the blade of its familiar commonplaceness; and Nather’s effort collapsed
as if the same cleavage had snapped the support of his spine. He
shuddered once and slouched back limply in his chair, passing a
trembling hand across his eyes.
    Simon smiled again. His shoe resumed its gentle
swinging, and he swept a gay, mocking eye over the desk. There were two
telephones on it—one of them clearly a house phone. On a small table to the
right of the desk stood a third telephone, obviously a Siamese
twin of the second, linked to the same out side wire and
intended for His Honour’s secretary. The Saint reached out a long
arm and brought it over onto his knee.
    “Answer the call, brother,” he
suggested persuasively.
    A wave of his automatic added its
imponderable weight to the suggestion; but the fight had already been drained
out of the judge’s veins. With a grey drawn face he dragged one of the
telephones towards him; and as he lifted the receiver Simon matched the
movement on the extension line and slanted his gun over in a
relentless arc to cover the other’s heart. Def initely it was not
Mr. Wallis Nather’s evening, but the Saint could not afford to be
sentimental.
    “Judge Nather speaking.”
    The duplicate receiver at the Saint’s ear
clicked to the vibra tions of a clear feminine voice.
    “This is Fay.” The speech was crisp
and incisive, but it had a rich pleasantness of music that very few
feminine voices can maintain over the telephone—there was a rare quality in
the sound that moved the Saint’s blood with a queer, delightful expectation
for which he could have given no account. It was just one of those
voices. “The Big Fellow says you’d better stay home tonight,”
stated the voice. “He may want you.”
    Nather’s eyes seemed to glaze over; then they
switched to the Saint’s face. Simon moved his gun under the desk lamp and edged
it a little forward, and his gaze was as steady as the steel. Nather swallowed.
    “I—I’ll be here,” he stammered.
    “See that you are,” came the terse
conclusion, in the same voice of bewitching overtones; and then the
wire went dead.
    Watching Nather, the Saint knew that at least
half the audience had understood that cryptic conversation perfectly. The judge was
staring vacantly ahead into space with the lifeless receiver still
clapped to his ear and his mouth hung half open.
    “Very interesting,” said the Saint
softly.
    Nather’s mouth closed jerkily. He replaced
the receiver slowly on its hook and looked up.
    “A client of mine,” he said
casually; but he was not casual enough.
    “That’s interesting, too,” said the
Saint. “I didn’t know judges were supposed to have clients. I
thought they were un attached and impartial… . And she must be
very beautiful, with a voice like that. Can it be, Algernon, that you are
hiding something
from me?”
    Nather glowered up at him.
    “How much longer are you going on with
this preposterous performance?”
    “Until it bores me. I’m easily
amused,” said the Saint, “and up to now I haven’t
yawned once. So far as I can see, the interview is progressing from good to
better. All kinds of things are bobbing up every minute. This Big Fellow of
yours, now: let’s hear some more about