There was something strange about Andrew's manner as he moved up to Duncombe's side. The latter, who was in curiously high spirits, talked incessantly for several minutes. Then he came to a dead stop. He was aware that his friend was not listening.
"What is the matter with you, old chap?" he asked abruptly. "You are positively glum."
Andrew Pelham shook his head.
"Nothing much!" he said.
"Rubbish! What is it?"
Andrew dropped his voice almost to a whisper. The words came hoarsely. He seemed scarcely master of himself.
"The girl's voice tortures me," he declared. "It doesn't seem possible that there can be two so much alike. And then Spencer's telegram. What does it mean?"
"Be reasonable, old fellow!" Duncombe answered. "You knew Phyllis Poynton well. Do you believe that she would be content to masquerade under a false name, invent a father, be received here—Heaven knows how—and meet you, an old friend, as a stranger? The thing's absurd, isn't it?"
"Granted. But what about Spencer's telegram?"
"It is an enigma, of course. We can only wait for his solution. I have wired him the information he asked for. In the meantime——"