sheet. On it, written by pen, he read the message: "Come to 381 King
Edward when the coast is clear," and below this the initials "C. B."

Blake, with the writing still before his eyes, opened a desk drawer and
took out a large reading-glass. Through the lens of this he again
studied the inscription, word by word. Then he turned to the office
'phone on his desk.

"Nolan," he said into the receiver, "I want to know if there 's a King
Edward Avenue in Montreal."

He sat there waiting, still regarding the handwriting with stolidly
reproving eyes. There was no doubt of its authenticity. He would have
known it at a glance.

"Yes, sir," came the answer over the wire. "It's one of the newer
avenues in Westmount."

Blake, still wrapped in thought, hung up the receiver. The woman
facing him did not seem to resent his possible imputation of
dishonesty. To be suspicious of all with whom he came in contact was
imposed on him by his profession. He was compelled to watch even his
associates, his operatives and underlings, his friends as well as his
enemies. Life, with him, was a concerto of skepticisms.

She was able to watch him, without emotion, as he again bent forward,
took up the 'phone receiver, and this time spoke apparently to another
office.

"I want you to wire Teal to get a man out to cover 381 King Edward