“Mrs. Ives said”—again the little frown of concentration—“she said, ‘Is that you Stephen? . . . It’s Sue—Sue Ives. Is Mimi there? . . . How long ago did she leave? . . . Are you sure she went there? . . . No, wait—this is vital—I have to see you at once. Can you get the car here in ten minutes? . . . No, not at the house. Stop at the far corner of the back road. I’ll come through the back gate to meet you. . . . Elliot hasn’t said anything to you? . . . No, no, never mind that—just hurry. . . . Good-bye.’ ”
Mr. Lambert beamed at her—a ferocious and colossal beam. “Now, that’s very nice—very nice, indeed, Miss Page. Every word pat, eh? Almost as though you’d learned it by heart, shouldn’t you say?”
“That’s probably because I did learn it by heart,” proffered Miss Page helpfully.
The beam forsook Mr. Lambert’s countenance, leaving the ferocity. “Oh, you learned it by heart, did you? Between the front steps and the side door, I suppose?”
“Not exactly. I wrote it down before I went in the side door.”
“You did what?”
“I wrote it down while Mrs. Ives was talking, most of it. The last sentence or so I did just before I came in.”
Mr. Lambert took a convulsive grip on his sagging jaw. “Oh, indeed! Brought back a portable typewriter and a fountain pen and a box of notepaper from the sand pile, too, I suppose?”
Miss Page smiled patiently and politely.
“No; but I had some crayons of the children’s in my sweater pocket.”