What?
You know what you just told me?
Oh!
I'll call you tomorrow.
No, you can't do that! This was positive.
He racked his brain; suddenly a sky-rocket shot up and burst, painting Paul Moody's address in fire against the sky.
Gramercy Park!
Yes.
Eight-thirty tomorrow morning.
Yes. Good-bye.
Good-bye.
Drains was in the kitchen. Had he heard? Harold wondered. He returned to his paper and apparently was buried in the stock reports, but a pair of violet eyes obtruded themselves between his vision and the print. His heart was beating violently. For the third time that day he wiped his temples with his handkerchief.
Drains entered, bearing a tray on which reposed a cocktail.
Dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Try this, sir.
Must I? I do-do-don't drink.
You don't drink? Certainly, sir, you are not obliged to.
Drains appeared to be astonished and a little hurt.
Would my father . . . ? Harold began, and faltered.
