"Yes?" she inquired sweetly, "who is it?"
"Me," replied Annan, regardless of an unpopular grammatical convention.
"I'm here with Ogilvy. May we come to tea?"
"Is Mr. Ogilvy here?"
"Yes, here at the Estwich Arms. May I—er—may he bring me over to call on you?"
"Y-yes. Oh, with pleasure, Mr. Annan…. When may I expect hi—you?"
"In about ten minutes," replied Annan firmly.
Then he went back and looked into Ogilvy's room. Sam was seated, his head clasped in his hands.
"I thought you might tear up your sheets and let yourself out of the window," said Annan sarcastically. "You're a fine specimen! Why you're actually lantern-jawed with fright. But I don't care! Come on; we're expected to tea! Get into your white flannels and pretty blue coat and put on your dinkey rah-rah, and follow me. Or, by heaven!—I'll do murder right now!"
Ogilvy's knees wavered as they entered the gateway.
"Go on!" hissed Annan, giving him a violent shove.