"Like being rubbed with sandpaper, and pounded with a hammer," he mused aloud; then became attentive.
"Are you familiar with many of the voices—of the old patrons, that is?" he inquired.
"Yes, a good many of them. Some voices I recognize immediately; but, of course, to me the great majority are merely voices, and no more."
"I see.... Could you recognize General Westbrook's voice?"
She smiled slightly, as though the question were amusingly reminiscent. "Yes, sir," she said; and again the gray eyes kindled.
"That's good—very good. And was the voice you heard last night General Westbrook's?"
"I don't know."
"Don't know? ... How's that?"
Miss Carter bestowed a hasty side-glance upon the night floor-walker.
"Well, you see, sir," she replied, with some hesitation, but also with a certain air of gratification, as though she were glad of the opportunity for making the confidence, "that while his voice and manner were well-known to most of the girls—very cranky and supercilious he was, and they all detested him—he was not very close to the transmitter last night."