"Oh. What is it?"
"I called your home and you weren't in, so I tried—How are you?"
"I'll live. What's the occasion?"
"I wondered—I'd like to talk to you. Would you care to have lunch with me?"
"No, thanks." Kintyre had better plans than to watch Owens perform. "I'm busy."
"Are you sure?" The voice was worried.
"Quite. I'll be here for some hours. I'll just duck out for a sandwich." Maliciously: "I've some work to do on Bruce's project. Afterward—"
What? Well, he hadn't called Margery today. He supposed, with a faintly suffocated feeling, that he ought to see her. "I have an engagement," he finished.
"Oh." Hesitantly: "Do you think I could drop up to your office, then? It really is urgent, and it may be to your own advantage."
"Sure," said Kintyre, remembering his wish to play sleuth. "Walk into my parlor." He gave Owens the room number and hung up. Then he returned to the Book of Witches.