'He is out,' she said. 'Is there any message?'

'Yes,' said the voice, emphatically. 'Tell him that Rupert Morrison
rang up to ask what he was to do with all this great stack of music
that's arrived. Does he want it forwarded on to him, or what?' The
voice was growing high and excited. Evidently Mr Morrison was in a
state of nervous tension when a man does not care particularly who
hears his troubles so long as he unburdens himself of them to someone.

'Music?' said Annette.

'Music!' shrilled Mr Morrison. 'Stacks and stacks and stacks of it. Is
he playing a practical joke on me, or what?' he demanded, hysterically.
Plainly he had now come to regard Annette as a legitimate confidante.
She was listening. That was the main point. He wanted someone--he did
not care whom--who would listen. 'He lends me his rooms,' wailed Mr
Morrison, 'so that I can be perfectly quiet and undisturbed while I
write my novel, and, first thing I know, this music starts to arrive.
How can I be quiet and undisturbed when the floor's littered two yards
high with great parcels of music, and more coming every day?'

Annette clung weakly to the telephone box. Her mind was in a whirl, but
she was beginning to see many things.

'Are you there?' called Mr Morrison.

'Yes. What--what firm does the music come from?'

'What's that?'