"Hello!" drawled the little voice. "Who is this?"
I gave the number, with a mental reservation concerning some unknown person's telephone manners.
"Yes, I know; but who's there? Who is this speaking?"
"This is Mr. Tabor's house," said I sharply. "Do you want some one in particular, or will you leave a message?" It may have been partly the voice which annoyed me: a thick, soft voice unnaturally sweet in its inflection, a voice like the caress of a fat hand. I thought there was a trace of foreign accent, but that might be imagination.
"Oh—might I speak with Mrs. Tabor, please?"
"Hold the line a moment," said I; and as I turned, there was Mrs. Tabor herself in the doorway.
"Is it for me?" she asked. "You know, I'm sure it's the very same person I was going to call. Telephone calls cross that way all the time, just like letters."
I left her, and went back to my book. A few minutes later Sheila came in.
"Mrs. Tabor"—she began. Then with an astonished look about the room, "Why, where is she?"
"She was in Mr. Tabor's study, telephoning, a moment ago," I said. "Is anything the matter?"