“What the deuce now?” he murmured.
“The quickest way to an answer to that,” suggested Iff blandly, “is there.” He indicated the telephone with an ample gesture. “Help yourself.”
Dropping his burden on the divan, Staff seated himself at the desk and took up the receiver.
“Hello?”
He started violently, recognising the voice that answered: “Mr. Staff?”
“Yes—”
“This is Miss Searle.”
“I know,” he stammered; “I—I knew your voice.”
“Really?” The query was perfunctory. “Mr. Staff—I couldn’t wait to tell you—I’ve just got in from a theatre and supper party with some friends.”
“Yes,” he said. “Where are you?”