The telephone bell rang again. I forget what I said. I think it was a short prayer, or an invocation of some kind. My first impulse was not to answer the ’phone again at all, but to let the thing go on ringing. It rang so persistently, however, that in desperation I pulled off the receiver.
“Who the dickens is it? What do you want?” I shouted.
I gasped.
“What! Vera? Where are you? I want to see you. I must see you at once!”
My love was in dire distress. I could hear emotion in her voice. My heart beat quickly in my eagerness.
“Oh, come to me—do come to me!” she was saying hurriedly in a low tone, as though fearful of some one overhearing her. “I’m in such trouble, and you alone can help me. Tell me when you will come. Tell me quickly. At any moment someone may catch me talking on the telephone.”
“Where are you? Give me your address, quickly,” I answered, feverishly. I was madly anxious to meet her again.
“We are in London—but we go to Brighton—to-day—this afternoon—”
“Your address in London, quick.”
“Twenty-six Upper—”