"Well, what do you expect? That confounded buzzer—"
"—is a perfectly natural normal buzzer. You're just terribly upset, dear."
"No," Mr. Ritchie said, "I am not 'just terribly upset, dear'—for seven years I've been listening to that banshee's wail every time somebody wants in. Well, I'm through. Either it goes—"
"All right, all right," Mrs. Ritchie said. "You don't have to make a production out of it."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
Mr. Ritchie sighed ponderously, glared at his wife, set what was left of the martini down on a table and went to the door. He slipped the chain.
"Be this the marster of 'arfway 'ouse?"
Mr. Ritchie opened the door. "Max—what the devil are you doing up at this hour?"
A large man, well built, in his forties, walked in, smiling. "I could ask you the same question," he said, flinging his hat and scarf in the direction of a chair, "but I'm far too thoughtful."