already, to-day. Brophy's? Why, Maggie Monahan, you ought to know
there's no Brophy's. At least none that I ever heard about.

With my hand over the mouthpiece, so that nobody heard but
Edward, I ordered a supper fit for a king--or a chorus girl! What
didn't I order! Champagne, broiled lobster, crab meat, stuffed
pimentoes, kirschkaffee--everything I'd ever heard Beryl
Blackburn tell about.

"Say, say," interrupted Edward, coming out after me. "That's
enough of that stuff. Tell him to send in a Scotch and soda
and--what--"

For at that moment the connection was made and I cut in sweetly
with:

"Mrs. Edward Ramsay?--just a minute."

Mag, you should have seen the man's face! It was red, it was
white; it was furious, it was frightened.

I put my hand a moment over the mouthpiece and turned on him
then. "I've got her on the 'phone at Mrs. Gates' house. Shall I
tell your wife where you are, Edward? . . . Just a moment, Mrs.
Ramsay, hold the wire; some one wants to speak with you."

"You little devil!" His voice was thick with rage.

"Yes, you called me that some time ago, but not in that tone.
Quick, now--the door or . . . Waiting, Mrs. Ramsay?"