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“What’s the matter, Glenn?” Hutchins asked, smiling at the chagrined one.

“Foiled!” the other wailed. “Foiled! and by the Chink!”

“Chinese Charley? What’s he done? Vamoosed?”

“No; he’s here. Charley, come in here, and tell Mr. Hutchins that yarn.”

Charley entered, silent-footed, calm, meekly respectful. Had it not been for a gleam in the Chinaman’s eye, Hutchins would have thought Glenn was imagining things.

“It was a while ago,” Glenn burst forth, “and I was sitting around, when I heard Charley answer the telephone. Always heretofore, he’s done that and then turned the thing over to me.

“This time I heard him say, ‘Yes, sir,’ and ‘No, sir,’ and then he hung up—and—guess who had been talking to him?”

“Who, Charley?” said Hutchins.

“Misser Locke,” said the Oriental, imperturbably.

“Mr. Locke! What did he say?”

“Said Charley pay bills. Little small bills—papers, milk, so so. Says he will pay big bills. Says ‘good-by, Charley, maybe never come back. Good-by, Charley.’ So I say, good-by. Dassall.”

“‘Dassall,’ is it?” cried Hutchins, “well, that’s just about enough! Don’t look so done up, Glenn. What difference would it have made if you had been on the wire?”

“We could have traced the message”

“You can do that, anyway, but it won’t do a speck of good. Of course, he telephoned from some big pay station—Grand Central or some such place. Or from some corner drug store. And before you can do anything, he’s gone and mingled with the crowd! No, Glenn, all you could have done would have been to have made a fool of