He was still ringing when a dishevelled figure, in blue pajamas and a scowl, opened the door.
“What the devil do you—” the disturbed one growled.
“S-h-h!” said Harleston, his finger on his lips. “Keep these for me until tomorrow, Stuart.”
And crowding the roses and the envelope in the astonished man’s hands, he hurried away.
The pajamaed one glared at the flowers and the envelope; then he turned and flung them into a corner of the living-room.
“Hell!” he said in disgust. “Harleston’s either crazy or in love: it’s the same thing anyway.”
He slammed the door and went back to bed.
Harleston, chuckling, returned to his quarters; retrieved from the floor a leaf and a petal and tossed them out of the window. Then, being assured by a careful inspection of the room that there were no further traces of the roses remaining, he went to bed.
Two minutes after his head touched the pillow, he was asleep.
Presently he awoke—listening!