'Yes, it is, ma'am—very strange, ma'am.'
And then there was silence. He was writing, she knew, on the pad provided by Wemyss for the purpose.
This was the most trying part of Twite's duties. Any message had to be written down and left on the hall table, complete with the time of its delivery, for Wemyss to see when he came in at night. Twite was not a facile writer. Words confused him. He was never sure how they were spelt. Also he found it very difficult to remember what had been said, for there was a hurry and an urgency about a voice on the telephone that excited him and prevented his giving the message his undivided attention. Besides, when was a message not a message? Wemyss's orders were to write down messages. Suppose they weren't messages, must he still write? Was this, for instance, a message?
He thought he had best be on the safe side, and laboriously wrote it down.
Miss Henwissel rang up sir to know if you was come and if so when you was coming and what orders we ad and said it was very strange 12.15.
He had only just put this on the table and was about to descend to his quiet shades when off the thing started again.
This time it was Wemyss.
'Back to-night late as usual,' he said.
'Yes sir,' said Twite. 'There's just been a——'
But he addressed emptiness.