Intrepid--that is, Langdon--Mowbray Langdon!
"The whole thing--was planned carefully," continued Ball, "and is coming
off according to schedule. Fearless overheard a final message Intrepid's
brother brought from him to-day."
So it was no mischance--it was an assassination. Mowbray Langdon had
stabbed me in the back and fled.
"Did you hear what I said?" asked Ball. "Is that you?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Oh," came in a relieved tone from the other end of the wire. "You were so
long in answering that I thought I'd been cut off. Any instructions?"
"No," said I. "Good-by."
I heard him ring off, but I sat there for several minutes, the receiver
still to my ear. I was muttering: "Langdon, Langdon--why--why--why?" again
and again. Why had he turned against me? Why had he plotted to destroy
me--one of those plots so frequent in Wall Street--where the assassin
steals up, delivers the mortal blow, and steals away without ever being
detected or even suspected? I saw the whole plot now--I understood Tom
Langdon's activities, I recalled Mowbray Langdon's curious phrases and
looks and tones. But--why--why--why? How was I in his way?
It was all dark to me--pitch-dark. I returned to the smoking-room, lighted
a cigar, sat fumbling at the new situation.
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