He rose restlessly and fumbled for his watch. A minute to eleven! He stepped across to the telephone. While the boy at the switchboard was getting his number, he tapped with his foot, consumed with impatience.
“Madame Jodrell’s apartment?—I want to speak to Miss Desire.—Oh, no, I’m sure she’s not sleeping. You’re mistaken.” He laughed nervously. “This is Mr. Gurney. She asked me to ring her up at eleven.”
Silence. A long wait. “She’ll speak to you, sir.” The clicking of a new connection. He heard the receiver taken down at the other end and a curious sound which, after puzzling over, he decided must be the running of bathwater.
“Are you there?”
He listened.
“Is that you, Desire?”
No answer.
Then she gave herself away. Across the wire came to him a stifled yawn, followed by a bubbling little laugh.
“Yes, it’s Desire. What a lot of time you’re wasting. A whole minute! Time enough to decide the destiny of nations. And weren’t you punctual!—Can you come at once! Certainly not. Can’t you guess where I am? I shan’t be ready till twelve.—Oh, well, if you don’t mind waiting, I’ll expect you.”
He had intended to say more, but she rang off.