"Go on!" jeered the telephone, in a startlingly different tone, but much lower-voiced. "How do I know you can pay that?"
The banks are closed. But did you ever hear of Mr. Joseph Anthony? He's the biggest art-dealer in London."
"Yes, sir," the voice muttered respectfully. "We've had to— " the word "sell" seemed to tremble on his lips.
"His private 'phone-number is Grosvenor 0011. Confirm it with Information if you doubt me. I'm going to 'phone him now. You ring him in about fifteen minutes. Ask him then if he's ready, on my say-so, to send you his own personal cheque for that amount The cheque will reach you tomorrow, and won't be stopped unless you've given me a fake address."
"The… the address is not on the 'phone, sir."
"Never mind. Get it!"
Then he had 'phoned Joe Anthony; and waited in agony, twisting his knuckles, for Dawson's return-call. Curious, too: once or twice he imagined he had heard somebody whispering in the background while he spoke to Dawson. Then the telephone pealed its double-ring.
That's all right, sir," Dawson muttered. The address is not exactly in London."
"I didn't suppose it was, or the old — she wouldn't have told me so."
"Care of Mr. and Mrs. Ives, Ranham Old Park, Ranham, Hertfordshire."