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"Remember, you're to say 'Benvenuto Cellini, and the telephone is Plaza nine-double-o-one. Luck to you!" Again they gripped hands. Then Larry slipped through the darkened doorway into whatever might lie beyond. A misting rain was being swirled about by a temperish wind as Larry came out into the little street.
Central Park West was practically empty of automobiles, for the theaters had not yet discharged their crowds and no policeman was in sight. He vaulted the wall; a minute later he was in a booth in the drug-store, had dropped his nickel in the slot, and was asking for Plaza nine-double-o-one. "Hello, sir!" responded the very correct voice of a man. "Benvenuto Cellini," said Larry.
And then for the first time there came to him remembrance of Hunt's rapid injunction, given him in the hurly-burly of escape when no thoughts could impress the upper surface of his mind save those of the immediate moment. "If you're trapped, call Plaza nine-double-o-one and say 'Benvenuto Cellini." Larry had no idea what that swift instruction might be about.
He was going forth with two forces in arms against him, the police and his pals, and he had no desire to be a shining mark for either or both by stepping through a lighted doorway. "Larry, my son, you're all right!" said Hunt, gripping his hand in the darkness. "Listen, boy: if ever you're trapped and can get to a telephone, call Plaza nine-double-o-one and say 'Benvenuto Cellini." "All right."
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