The connection was made almost at once.
“Who are you?” Laverick asked.
“I am speaking for Miss Zoe Leneveu,” was the reply. “Are you Mr. Laverick?”
“I am,” Laverick answered. “Is Miss Leneveu there? Can she speak to me herself?”
“She is not here,” the voice continued. “She was fetched away in a hurry from the theatre—we understood by her brother. She left two and sixpence with the doorkeeper here to ring you up and explain that she had been summoned to her brother’s rooms, 25, Jermyn Street, and would you kindly go on there.”
“Who are you?” Laverick demanded.
There was no reply. Laverick remained speechless, listening intently. He stood still with the receiver pressed to his ear. Was it his fancy, or was that really Zoe’s protesting voice which he heard in the background? It was a woman or a child who was speaking—he was almost sure that it was Zoe.
“Who are you?” he asked fiercely. “Miss Leneveu is there with you. Why does she not speak for herself?”
“Miss Leneveu is not here,” was the answer. “I have done what she desired. You can please yourself whether you go or not. The address is 25, Jermyn Street. Ring off.”
The connection was gone. Laverick laid down the receiver and stepped out of the booth.