“Whether you are—well, no matter; we’ll take it up this afternoon. Tout à l’heure, Monsieur Harleston!”
He was turning once more toward the door, when the telephone rang again.
“Is that Mr. Harleston?” said Mrs. Clephane’s lovely voice—and Harleston’s grin almost flowed into the transmitter.
“It is indeed!” he responded—then severely: “Where have you been, my lady? You have given me a most horrible fright.”
“I cry your pardon, my lord; I’ll not transgress again,” she laughed. “And if you don’t scold me I’ll tell you something—something I’m sure will be worth even a diplomat’s hearing.”
“Anything you would tell would be well worth any diplomat’s hearing,” said he; “only I shall always prefer to be the diplomat on duty when you are doing the telling!”
“That’s deliciously nice, Mr. Harleston; I—”
“Where are you now?” he demanded.
“At the Chateau—in my apartment. Anything more?”
“Nothing; except to pray you to be prudent and not do it again.”