Just then the telephone rang—noisily as befits two o’clock in the morning.
“Who the devil wants me at such an hour?” he muttered.
The clang was repeated almost instantly and continued until he unhooked the receiver.
“Well!” he said sharply.
“Is that Mr. Harleston?” asked a woman’s voice. A particularly soft and sweet and smiling voice, it was.
“I am Mr. Harleston,” he replied courteously—the voice had done it.
“Oh, how do you do, Mr. Harleston!” the voice rippled. “I suppose you are rather astonished at being called up at such an unseemly hour—”
“Not at all—I’m quite used to it, mademoiselle,” Harleston assured her.
“Now you’re sarcastic,” the voice replied again; “and, somehow, I don’t like sarcasm when I’m the cause of it.”
“You’re the cause of it but not the object of it,” he assured her. “I’m quite sure I’ve never met you, and just as sure that I hope to meet you today.”