“The Chateau has been trying to get you for the last half-hour,” said she. “Shall I call them?”
“If you please,” he replied, “I’ll wait here.”
Presently she nodded to Harleston; he stepped into the booth and closed the door.
“This is Mr. Harleston,” said he.
“I recognize your voice, Guy, dear,” came Madeline Spencer’s soft tones. “I’d know it anywhere, indeed.”
“The same to you, my lady,” Harleston returned. “Was that what you were calling me for?”
“No, no!” she laughed. “I just wanted to tell you that I’m back at the Chateau. I thought you might be interested, you know; you sprinted so rapidly up N Street, and spent so much time driving around in a cab searching for me, that I assume it will be a very great relief to you to know that I am returned. It was such a satisfaction, Guy, to feel that you were so solicitous for my safety, and I appreciate it, my dear, I appreciate it. Meanwhile, you might wish to get busy as to my alter ego. I saw her going up Sixteenth Street, as I was returning—a little after eleven o’clock. Maybe she needs assistance, Guy; you never can tell. See you tomorrow, old enemy. Good-bye for tonight.”
“I say—are you there, Madeline?” Harleston ejaculated; then asked again. When no one answered he hung up the receiver and came from the booth. Spencer, that time, had put one over him; two, maybe, for he was concerned about Mrs. Clephane. Spencer had gone without her shadow, been free to transact her business, and returned—and all the time she knew of passing him and his pursuit of her, and was enjoying his discomfiture. To add a trifle more uneasiness, she had thrown in the matter of Mrs. Clephane. Probably it was false; yet he could not be sure and it troubled him. All of which, he was aware, Mrs. Spencer intended—and took a devilish joy in doing.
Harleston made a couple of turns up and down the room; then he sat down and drummed a bit on the table; finally he reached for the telephone. It was very late, but he would call her—she would understand.
He got the Chateau and, giving his name, asked whether Mrs. Clephane was on the first floor of the hotel. In a few minutes the answer came: she was not; should they give him her apartment? He said yes. Presently a sleepy voice answered. He recognized it as Marie—the maid—and had some difficulty in convincing her of his identity. He did it at last only by speaking French to her—which, as he had hitherto addressed her only in French, was not extraordinary.