“Symptoms of intelligence,” grunted Iff. “I was wondering when you’d wake up to the incongruity of knight-erranting it after damsels in distress in an open-faced get-up like that.”
“It’s done, however,” argued Staff good-humouredly. “It’s class, if the illustrators are to be believed. Don’t you ever read modern fiction? In emergencies like these the hero always takes a cold bath and changes his clothes before sallying forth to put a crimp in the villain’s plans. Just the same as me. Only I’m going to shed evening dress instead of—”
“Good heavens, man!” snorted Iff. “Are you in training for a monologist’s job? If so—if not—anyway—can it! Can the extemporaneous stuff!”
The telephone bell silenced whatever retort Staff may have contemplated. Both men jumped for the desk, but Staff got there first.
“Hello?” he cried, receiver at ear. “Yes? Hello?”
But instead of the masculine accents of the exchange-manager he heard, for the third time that night, the voice of Miss Searle.
“Yes,” he replied almost breathlessly—“it is I, Miss Searle. Thank Heaven you called up! I’ve been worrying silly—”
“We were cut off,” the girl’s voice responded. He noted, subconsciously, that she was speaking slowly and carefully, as if with effort.... “Cut off,” she repeated as by rote, “and I had trouble getting you again.”
“Then you’re—you’re all right?”
“Quite, thank you. I had an unpleasant experience trying to get to you by taxicab. The motor broke down coming through Central Park, and I had to walk home and lost my way. But I am all right now—just tired out.”