Jimmie Dale put on his coat again, walked over to the desk, and picked up the ’phone.

“If I may?” he inquired courteously—­and confided a number to the mouthpiece of the instrument.

There was a moment’s wait, during which Wilbur, in a desperate sort of way, seemed to be trying to rally himself, to piece together a puzzle, as it were; and for the first time he appeared to take a personal interest in the masked figure that leaned against his desk.  He kept passing his hands across his eyes, staring at Jimmie Dale.

Then Jimmie Dale spoke—­into the ’phone.

“Morning news-Argus office?  Mr. Carruthers, please.  Thank you.”

Another wait—­then Jimmie Dale’s voice changed its pitch and register to a pleasant and natural, though quite unrecognisable bass.

“Mr. Carruthers?  Yes.  I thought it might interest you to know that Mr. Theodore Markel purchased a very valuable diamond necklace this afternoon. . . .  Oh, you knew that, did you?  Well, so much the better; you’ll be all the more keenly interested to know that it is no longer in his possession. . . .  I beg pardon?  Oh, yes, I quite forgot—­this is the Gray Seal speaking. . . .  Yes. . . .  The Gray Seal. . . .  I have just come from Mr. Markel’s country house, and if you hurry a man out there you ought to be able to give the public an exclusive bit of news, a scoop, I believe you call it—­you see, Mr. Carruthers, I am not ungrateful for, I might say, the eulogistic manner in which the morning news-Argus treated me in that last affair, and I trust I shall be able to do you many more favours—­I am deeply in your debt.  And, oh, yes, tell your reporter not to overlook the detail of Mr. Markel in his pajamas and dressing gown tied to a tree in his park—­Mr. Markel might be inclined to be reticent on that point, and it would be a pity to deprive the public of any—­er—­’atmosphere’ in the story, you know. . . .  What? . . .  No; I am afraid Mr. Markel’s ’phone is—­er—­out of order. . . .  Yes. . . .  And, by the way, speaking of ’phones, Mr. Carruthers, between gentlemen, I know you will make no effort under the circumstances to discover the number I am calling from.  Good-night, Mr. Carruthers.”  Jimmie Dale hung the receiver abruptly on the hook.

“You see,” said Jimmie Dale, turning to Wilbur—­and then he stopped.  The man was on his feet, swaying there, his face positively gray.

“My God!” Wilbur burst out.  “What have you done?  A thousand times better if I had shot myself, as I would have done in another moment if you had not come in.  I was only ruined then—­I am disgraced now.  You have robbed Markel’s safe—­I am the one man in the world who would have a reason above all others for doing that—­and Markel knows it.  He will accuse me of it.  He can prove I had a motive.  I have not been home to-night.  Nobody knows I am here.  I cannot prove an alibi.  What have you done!”