Zada was alone—at least Cheever was not there. She had been astounded when Dyckman's name came through the telephone. Her first thought had been that Cheever had met with an accident and that Dyckman was bringing the news. She had given up the hope of involving Dyckman with Mrs. Cheever, after wasting Cheever's money on vain detectives.
When Dyckman was ushered in she greeted him from her divan.
“Pardon my negligée,” she said. “I'm not very well.”
He saw at a glance that the dictagraph had told the truth. She was entirely too well. He felt his wrath at Zada vanishing. But this also he transferred to Cheever's account. He spoke as quietly as he could, though his face revealed his excitement.
“Sorry to trouble you, but I had hoped to find Mr. Cheever here.”
“Mr. Cheever?! Here?!” Zada exclaimed, with that mixture of the interrogation and exclamation points for which we have no symbol. She tried to look surprised at the unimaginable suggestion of Cheever's being in her environs. She succeeded as well as Dyckman did in pretending that his errand was trivial.
“Er—yes, I imagined you might happen to know where I could find him. I have a little business with him.”
Zada thought to crush him with a condescension—a manicurial sarcasm:
“Have you been to the gentleman's home?”
Dyckman laughed: “Yes, but he wasn't there. He isn't there much nowadays—they say.”