From the table he went to the long-distance telephone. He would call her up and arrange for an assignation. There was considerable delay in establishing the connection—a buzzing over the wire, a confusion of vague sounds. Finally his ringing was answered by a strange voice.
“I wish to speak with Mrs. Riddle,” he said.
There was a little pause. Then, in a fumbling, evasive fashion the voice made reply.
“She’s not here. She’s—she’s out.”
It occurred to the governor that he might as well tell the warden he had abandoned the idea of pardoning the barber.
“Then I’d like to talk with Mr. Riddle,” he said.
“He’s—he’s not here either. Who is this, please?”
In his double disappointment the governor forgot the possible need for caution. “This,” he said, “is Governor Blankenship.”
“Oh!” The voice became warmer. “Is that you, Governor? I’ve been trying for an hour to get you on your private line. This is Warden Riddle’s brother at the ’phone—you know, Henry Riddle? They got me up at daylight when this—this terrible thing was discovered, and I’ve been here ever since, doing what I could.”
“What terrible thing do you mean?”