In the Jersey City depot I went like a streak for the Telephone Exchange. My one chance was to catch him at dinner and I gave the operator the number of his house. When she pointed to the booth I was trembling like a leaf.
The voice that answered me was a woman's—Irish—the cook's, I guess. She began right off: "Yes, this is Mr. Cokesbury's residence, but you can't see him."
"Wait," I almost screamed, scared that she was going to disconnect, "this is important. It's about a key I've just found. If Mr. Cokesbury's there tell him a lady wants to see him about a key she picked up a few minutes ago on the New Jersey train."
"All right. Hold the wire."
I knew he'd come. My heart was beating so I had to hold it hard with my free hand and I had to bite my lips to make them limber. But, honest to God, when I heard him—clear and distinct right in my ear—I thought I was going to faint. For at last I'd got the Voice!
"What's this about finding a key?" he said gruff and sharp.
"Am I speaking to Mr. Cokesbury?"
"You are. Who is it?"
"No one you know, sir. I've just come in from Philadelphia and on the Pullman step I found a package which seems to have a key in it. I noticed that it was addressed to you and I looked you up in the telephone book and am phoning now from Jersey City."
He was very cordial then. His voice was the same deep, pleasant one he'd used to Sylvia.