It was late before Constance had a chance to do anything with the microphone. It seemed as if Worthington were staying, perversely, later than usual. At last, however, he left with a curt nod to her.
The moment the door was closed she stopped the desultory clicking of her typewriter with which she had been toying in the appearance of being busy. With Brainard she entered the board room where she had noticed Worthington and Sheppard often during the day.
It was, without exaggeration, one of the most plainly furnished rooms she had ever seen. A long mahogany table with eight large mahogany chairs, a half inch pile of velvety rug on the floor and a huge chandelier in the middle of the ceiling constituted the furniture. Not a picture, not a cabinet or filing case broke the blankness of the brown painted walls.
For a moment she stopped to consider. Brainard waited and watched her narrowly.
"There isn't a place to put this transmitter except up above that chandelier," she said at length.
He gave her his hand as she stepped on a chair and then on the table. There was a glimpse of a trim ankle. The warmth and softness of her touch caused him to hold her hand just a moment longer than was absolutely necessary. A moment later he was standing on the table beside her.
"This is the place, all right," she said, looking at the thick scum of dust on the top of the reflector.
Quickly she placed the little black disc close to the center on the top of the reflector. "Can you see that from the floor?" she asked.
"No," he answered, walking about the room, "not a sign of it."
"I'll sit here," she said in just a tremor of excitement over the adventure, "and listen while you talk in the board room."