"9846 Regent."
It was the number of Harold Tremaine's club. She thought he would almost
certainly be there just now.
She then hung up the receiver again, and, going to the door which
led into the kitchen, she opened it: "Don't bring in my supper yet.
I'll ring, when I'm ready for it." She then went back to the little
writing-table and waited impatiently.
At last the bell rang.
"I want to speak to Captain Tremaine. Is he in the Club? Can you find
him?"
She felt an intense thrill of almost superstitious relief when the answer
came: "Yes, ma'am. He's in the Club. I'll go and fetch him."
She remembered with relief that Tremaine had told her that no one could
overhear, at any rate at his end, what was being said or answered through
the telephone--but she also remembered that it was not the same here, in
The Trellis House.
Judging others by herself, as most of us do in this strange world, she
felt sure that her two young servants were listening behind the door.
Still, in a sense there was nothing Enid Crofton liked better than
pitting her wits against other wits. So when she heard the question,
"Who is it?" she simply answered, "Darling! Can't you guess?"
In answer to his rapturous assent, she said quietly, "I've made up my
mind to do what you wish.
Pages:
375
376
377
378
379
380
381
382
383
384
385
386
387
388
389
390
391
392
393
394
395
396
397
398
399