As he folded the telegram and put it into his pocket, he observed the man with the opera glasses over the way. He shrugged. Well, let him watch till his eyes dropped out of his head; he would only see that which was intended for his eyes. Still, it was irksome to feel that no matter when or where you moved, watching eyes observed and chronicled these movements.
Suddenly, not being devoid of a sense of dry humor, Jones stepped over to the telephone and called up her highness the Countess Perigoff.
"Who is it?"
He was forced to admit, however reluctantly, that the woman had a marvelously fine speaking voice.
"It is Jones, madam."
"Jones?"
"Mr. Hargreave's butler, madam."
"Oh! You have news of Florence?"
"Yes." It will be an embarrassing day for humanity when some one invents a photographic apparatus by which two persons at the two ends of the telephone may observe the facial expressions of each other.
"What is it? Tell me quickly."