The ghost information

" Yes, I dare say," said Delbury snappishly; "but that won't bring us any nearer to getting our hands on the ghost, will it?"

"Ahhhr! leave the man alone. it's after doing you a good turn, he is" snorted Shaughnessy.

There was silence for a minute, and then Delbury declared his unbelief in the existence of this newcomer, Lyall.

"Who is he?" he demanded. "Eh? Who is he? Is he the new leader of this gang of ruffians, or Is he just one of the mob? I've searched every file in the records and there isn't a trace of a Lyall big enough to be in with the silver Arrows. The only one recorded at all isn't in the possibilities. He's doing a four years stretch in pentonville and won't be out till next year."

"I'm game to bet that there is a Lyall in that bunch when we get the handcuffs on 'em , anyway." said Shaughnessy grimly.

"thirty-four times the ghost has come through with the goods. and we've landed 'em every time. I'm game to bet on him thus time too."

"Well either Lyall is one of the underdogs of the game or he is something mighty big and unexpected," declared Delbury with angry conviction.

"sure, and its my idea he's one of the old lags running under another name."

"Old lags are always known by their old names among men I'm their own game," said Delbury bluntly. "And it's obvious that the Ghost gets his information right down there where they make it. No." he continued slowly, "if Lyall exists at all he is going to be one beautiful big surprise package when we come to find out all about him."

"I'll get him all right-----if he shows up," said Shaughnessy slowly.

Another little silence fell. it was broken by Delbury saying: "well, it's too late to do anything more tonight. Go home and go to bed. We will thrash out the rest of this business in the morning. I'll try to get a line on this man Lyall through the identification department. Give me over that telephone. I'll get through to them and have a search made right away.

They've probably got----"

Valmon Dain snatched away his contact key as though it had suddenly stung him. the mere mention if the word telephone seemed to put a jolt of electricity through him.

He pulled off his headphones and ran his fingers through his hair. In the green gloom his brow shone glassy with perspiration.

"Phew!"he muttered, and glanced at his watch. "Half past two. might just be able to catch the mail at the G.P.O."

He hurried out to the annexe and printed on a plain, undated post-card:

"Do not leave your house on Monday night if you value your life."

underneath, with a glint of a smile at the corner of his mouth, he dropped a pellet of warm, red wax and pressed the thumb of his right hand firmly into it. He addressed it in neat upstanding capitals to Willard Lyall, Greydene, Highgate and went out and posted it. By breakfast-time that post-card would be on Willard Lyall's plate.

Then, hailing a night prowling taxi, he drove out to his house at Hendon.

That house of his was a landmark in the neighborhood. Residents pointed it out to visitors , with pardonable process the above of the man who had created employment for thousands, who had conferred inestimable benefits upon the world, and who had his Name a thing of note in every corner of the empire. But of recent months the local inhabitants had not seen much of Dain, nor he of his house.

His servants were not expecting him when he arrived. His house was in darkness. thankful for privacy, he let himself in and crawled wearily to bed.

At seven o'clock next morning a purring alarm buzzer woke him up, it's quiet, insistent note drumming out from under his pillow. He dressed and motored to kingsway, telling his chauffeur to make all speed through the quiet Streets. Before eight o'clock was booming from Big Ben he was back again among his eerily whispering wires, plugging in his contact keys, interplaying his circuits , moving up and down the rows of polished dials with the methodical precision of a machine.