"Wait a minute, wait a minute, Bingle," came Mr. Force's agitated voice through the transmitter. "For heaven's sake, don't fly off the handle like this. I—I thought I was acting for the best interests of every one. I was only trying to help you out in—"
"I don't need any help," said Mr. Bingle crisply. "Have you told your wife?"
"Yes, I have," said Force. "That's—that's why we are going abroad for a few months. She—"
"Mrs. Bingle was right, then. She usually is. What is her attitude?"
"Devilish bad, Bingle—devilish, that's all I can say. I can't talk to you over the telephone about it. I'll—I'll write you from Paris. I'm—I'm working with her, that's all I can do at present. I believe she'll come around all right in the end. I'm sure she will. I'll—I'll let you know."
"Says she won't have the brat in her house, is that it?" said Mr. Bingle, with a queer rasp in his voice.
"I can't talk to you over the telephone. Didn't you hear me say so a minute ago?"
"You can say yes or no, can't you?"
"She's pretty much upset over the business."
"Speak up! I can't hear you."