"My name is O'Hara. Emmett O'Hara."
"That's a very rotten joke."
"Yes, isn't it? But I do want to see you. I've just gotten in from Cairo after four days' flying and I need a drink and Nedra doesn't drink and I hate to drink alone. I've opened up my flat in Bloomsbury. How fast can you make it?"
I pressed my face within my hands. Then, listening for the sound of the voice, I said, "O'Hara?"
"Do you realize you're wasting time and I haven't much to waste?" he said. "I want to see you. Now shake it up, old boy, I've poured for you—"
"O'Hara, is it really you?"
"Can you make it by six?"
"But it's—"
"I know—impossible. But can you do it?"
When I knocked, he opened the door. He stood there casually, grinning at me as if I had just come back from an errand to the corner grocer's. The collar of his brilliant blue uniform was open at the throat. The three bars and half-globe were missing. His jet-black hair was tousled carelessly.