"Hello! Is that you, dear? This is Eileen speaking.... I can't hear. What do you say?"
It was the clear, musical voice of the girl Robert Grell was to marry. Fairfield wondered if his friend had expected this.
"This is not Mr. Grell," he said. "This is Fairfield—Sir Ralph Fairfield—speaking."
"Oh!" He could detect the disappointment in her voice. "Is he there? I am Lady Eileen Meredith."
Fairfield mentally cursed the false position in which he found himself. He was usually a ready-witted man,
but now he found himself stammering almost incoherently.
"Yes—no—yes. He is here, Lady Eileen, but he has a guest whom it is impossible for him to leave. It's a matter of settling up an important diplomatic question, I believe. Can I give him any message?"
"No, thank you, Sir Ralph." The voice had become cold and dignified. He could picture her chagrin, and again anathematised Grell in his thoughts. "Has he been there long? When do you think he will be free?"
"I can't say, I'm sure. He met me here for dinner at seven and has been here since."
He hung up the receiver viciously. He had not expected to have to lie to Grell's fiancée when he had promised not to disclose his friend's absence from the club. It was too bad of Grell. His eye met the clock, and with a start he realised that it was a few minutes to eleven o'clock. Grell had been gone an hour and a half.