“You’re sure?� he asked in sour doubt.
“You can look at my slip here on the desk,� pertly retorted Daisy. “All the calls are marked on that.�
“No,â€� said the man slowly, “I wont do that—because, if you’ve lied, you wouldn’t be past altering the slip. What I’m going to do is to ask the building’s superintendent for an itemized list of all the calls from my apartment for the past month or two. He’s obliged to furnish it on demand. That ought to tell me something.â€�
He hung up. Daisy sat gasping. Before her mental gaze ranged the memory of forty-odd calls a month to Worth 9999-Z. Then she came to a decision. Out into the marble-lined hallway she went. There she corralled the second elevator-boy and bribed him with twenty-five cents to take charge of the switchboard for a few minutes. A moment or so later, a colored maid was ushering her into Apartment 60.
In the middle of a garish living-room stood Daisy, trying desperately to think straight. The curtains parted, and a woman came into the room. Daisy blinked at her in bewilderment—then said:
“I should like to speak to Mrs. Vanbrugh, please. It’s very important.�
“I’m Mrs. Vanbrugh,� answered the woman, eying the girl with curiosity.
“I—I mean Mrs. Madeline Vanbrugh,â€� faltered the girl.
“I am Mrs. Madeline Vanbrugh,â€� was the answer, and now Daisy recognized the voice, “—Mrs. Philip C. Vanbrugh. What can I do for you?â€�
Daisy could not answer at once. Around her dumfounded head the bubbles were bursting like a myriad Roman-candle balls.