WHEN Elk came up to the Prosecutor’s room, d**k was sitting at the table, writing telegrams. They were each addressed to the Governor of Gloucester Prison, and contained a brief intimation that a reprieve for James Carter was on its way. Each was marked viâ a different route.
“What’s the idea?” said Elk.
“The phone to Gloucester is out of order,” said d**k, and Elk bit his lip thoughtfully.
“Is that so?” he drawled. “Then if the phone’s out of order—”
“I don’t want to think that,” said d**k.
Elk took up the instrument.
“Give me the Central Telegraph Office, miss,” he said. “I want to speak to the Chief Clerk….Yes, Inspector Elk, C.I.D.”
After a pause, he announced himself again.
“We’re putting some wires through to Gloucester. I suppose the lines are all right?”
His face did not m
