Markham put down his pen, and stared.
“What new damned nonsense is this?”
“I made an engagement for you. Called the lady by ’phone this morning. I’m sure I woke the dear up.”
Markham spluttered, striving to articulate his angry protest.
Vance held up his hand soothingly.
“And you simply must keep the engagement. Y’ see, I told her it was you speaking; and it would be shocking taste not to appear. . . . I promise, you won’t regret meeting her,” he added. “Things looked so sadly befuddled last night,—I couldn’t bear to see you suffering so. Cons’quently, I arranged for you to see Mrs. Paula Banning—Pfyfe’s Éloïse, y’ know. I’m pos’tive she’ll be able to dispel some of this inspissated gloom that’s enveloping you.”
“See here, Vance!” Markham growled. “I happen to be running this office⸺” He stopped abruptly, realizing the hopelessness of making headway against the other’s blandness. Moreover, I think, the prospect of interviewing Mrs. Paula Banning was not wholly alien to his inclinations. His resentment slowly ebbed, and when he again spoke his voice was almost matter-of-fact.
“Since you’ve committed me, I’ll see her. But I’d rather Pfyfe wasn’t in such close communication with her. He’s apt to drop in—with preconcerted unexpectedness.”
“Funny,” murmured Vance. “I thought of that myself. . . . That’s why I ’phoned him last night that he could return to Long Island.”
“You ’phoned him⸺!”