Some
one was knocking at the door.
"Come in!" said Jimmie Dale--and slipped the letter back into his
pocket, as the door opened.
It was one of the club's attendants.
"I beg pardon, Mr. Dale, sir," said the man; "but there is a 'phone call
for you." He glanced toward the telephone on the table. "I was not sure
just where you were, sir. Shall I ask them to connect you here?"
"Thank you!" said Jimmie pleasantly. "Very good, Masters. No--I'll
attend to it myself."
The man withdrew, and closed the door again. Jimmie Dale rose from his
chair, and, stepping to the table, picked up the instrument.
"There is a call for me, I believe," he said. "This is Mr. Dale."
There was a moment's silence, then Jimmie Dale spoke again.
"Yes--hello!" he said. "Yes, this is Mr. Dale. What--"
The room seemed suddenly to swirl about him--the hand so steady a few
moments ago was trembling palpably now as it held the instrument. _Her
voice_? No--he was mad! It was his brain, overwrought, strained, not to
the breaking point, but beyond, that had broken at last, and was mocking
at him now in some cruel phantasy. Her voice? No, it could not be, for
she--for she was--
"Jimmie! Jimmie!"--the voice came hurriedly again, almost frantically
this time.
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