I went into a drugstore and looked up Cokesbury—Edward L., residence. It was in the East Fifties and at six I tried him there.
I drew a man that I guess was a servant:
"Is Mr. Cokesbury home?"
"Who is it?"
"That doesn't matter. I want to know if he's home."
"I don't know, ma'am. Will you please give me your name?"
"Say, you're not taking the census or compiling a new directory, you're answering the phone. Tell Mr. Cokesbury a party wants to see him on business."
"I have orders, ma'am, not to bother Mr. Cokesbury with messages unless I know who they're from," said the voice, and then I knew he was there.
"I'm sure he'll come if you say it's a lady," I said, sort of coaxing and sweet.
"I'll try, ma'am," said the voice, and I could hear the echo of his feet as he walked off.