"At me? My dear Garry!"
"You didn't write, you know, after you said you would. You never do—"
"I telegraphed instead."
"Your telegram," reminded Garry, "said 'O.K. Kenny.' And I'm chuck full of curiosity and questions. Sit down. Every chair in the studio's on a furlough."
"So I see."
"You left the studio in something of a mess. Sid tried to straighten it out and nearly had brain fever. Got to babbling and wringing his hands and we sent for Haggerty. She went on an order bust for two days."
"The old shrew! I suppose everything in the place is under something."
He found cigarettes and a chair and settled back with an air of lazy comfort.
Garry made no attempt to disguise his impatience.
"Kenny," he said, "you're the limit. If I'd ever telephoned into your slumber and asked you to find four thousand ragged dollars and mail them to me, and if I'd said I'd accidentally acquired a ward and was bringing her back with me, you wouldn't sit there in patience and wait for facts. Mind, old dear, I want the truth. It's likely to be a lot queerer than anything you can make up."