"But I am talking," he insisted. "I'm asking you questions as fast as ever I can."
"However, your technique is wrong," I replied. "You shouldn't ask questions of a newspaper woman. You should let her ask the questions, and you should furnish the answers."
"But you're not a newspaper woman now, are you?" he demanded in some alarm. "I hope not—and certainly I must ask you questions before I begin to tell you things. There are quite a few facts which I wish to find out now."
"And they are, first—?"
"Where you live?"
I told him, and he took from his pocket a small leather book with his name, Maitland Tait, and an address in smaller letters which I could not make out, on the inside lining. In a small, rather cramped hand, he wrote the address I gave him, "1919 West Clydemont Place," then looked up at me.
"Next?" I laughed, in a flutter.
"Next I want to know when you will let me come to see you?"
"When?" I repeated, rather blankly.
He drew slightly back.