"I can't hear you."
She ventured to speak a little louder, glancing over her shoulder as she did so, and the man repeated the number. After what seemed an eternity she heard a piping, sleepy little voice with a Scotch accent. Thank God! It was nurse.
"Who are you?"
She had not answered when the receiver buzzed in her ear, nearly deafening her. Another voice, louder, more urgent, broke in.
"Are you Mayfair? Is this Sir Bryan Lumsden's?"
"Oh! please go away," pleaded poor Fenella, "you're interrupting a call."
"I won't go away. We're Hampstead. Is this Lumsden's? It's urgent. It's life or death. Tell him——"
She listened for a moment, then dropped the receiver with a scream. Bryan burst into the room, haggard, his tie hanging loose.
"What's the matter? Are you hurt?"
"Oh, Bryan! There's some one on the telephone for you. They say your son——I don't understand. It's something awful."