“Yes; I rather forgot—it’ll wait until you get here.”
“Then Thursday night, at eight, say, at the Grenoble!”
“No, no; make it nine forty-five—I don’t get away until then.”
“What would the Grenoble people say?”
“That’s so—you had better go to the Ralston. It’s free and easy. Yes, the Ralston,” he repeated. “The Ralston, at nine forty-five, Thursday. Good-bye!”
A moment later he could hear the frantic signal-bell again.
“Hello! Hello! What is it?”
“Hello, New York! Not through yet,” said the tired and nasal voice of the operator.
“You forgot something!” It was the contralto voice this time, reproachful and wounded. Durkin laughed a little as he leaned closer to the mouth-piece of his transmitter.
“Good-bye, dearest!” he said.