“Isn’t—isn’t that some one speaking?” asked the aged physician, gently, as if there was the slightest doubt of it. Mrs. Sandow’s harsh voice could have been heard through the whole house.
“I—I think it’s the housekeeper,” said Tom.
“Of course; to be sure,” replied the doctor, in a tone of relief, as if a great uncertainty had been lifted from his mind. “It must be my housekeeper. I thought I recognized the voice, but I couldn’t quite place it. I am afraid—I’m very much afraid—that my memory is going back on me.”
Tom hadn’t the slightest doubt of it.
“Well, are you going to let me in?” demanded Mrs. Sandow again. “I’d like to know what you mean, Lemuel, by locking the doors on me. I just want to know what you’re up to! The idea of locking doors when I’m around. Come! Are you going to let me in?”
“Do you think I’d better?” inquired the doctor, of Tom. “She—she’s a Tartar, you know.”
“Perhaps you had better see what she wants,” suggested the telephone boy.
“That’s an excellent suggestion. I will act upon it.”
The doctor tiptoed to the door, and, placing his lips close against a panel, whispered as loudly as he could:
“What do you want?”