Joan shut herself in with the sliding door and took up the receiver.
"Hello—Lambs' Club?" she enquired.... "Is Mr. Fowey in the club?... Will you page him, please.... Miss Thursday.... Yes, I'll hold the wire."
The booth was hermetically sealed. Perspiration was starting out all over her body. And somewhere in that airless box, probably at her feet, lurked a long unburied cigar. She thrust the door ajar, but only to close it immediately as Fowey's voice saluted her.
"Hello?"
"Hello, Hubert," Joan drawled, with a little touch of laughing mockery in her accents.
"Is that you, Joan—really?" the voice demanded excitedly.
"Real-ly!" she affirmed. "What're you doing there, shut up all alone by yourself in that stupid club, Hubert?"
Prefaced by a brief but intelligible pause, the man's response came briskly: "Where are you now, anyway?"
"That doesn't matter," she retorted. She had meant to ask him to meet her at the hotel, but reconsidered, fearing lest Marbridge might chance to see them. "What really matters is that this is my birthday and I'm going to give a party. Have you got anything better to do?"
"No—"