At
any rate, he reflected, with grim bitterness, they would know that he was
not romancing. If nothing turned up in the meantime he would certainly
visit Brunswick Square.
He sat in his own room puzzling the matter out till his head ached and
the flowers before him reeled in a dazzling whirl of colour. He looked
round for inspiration, now desperately, as he frequently did when the
warp of his delicate fancy tangled. The smallest thing sometimes fed the
machine again--a patch of sunshine, the chip on a plate, the damaged edge
of a frame. Then his eye fell on the telephone and he jumped to his feet.
"What a fool I am!" he exclaimed. "If I had been plotting this business
out as a story. I should have thought of that long ago.... No, I don't
want any number, at least, not in that way. Two nights ago I was called
up by somebody from London who held the line for fully half an hour or
so. I've--I've forgotten the address of my correspondent, but if you can
ascertain the number ... yes, I shall be here if you will ring me up when
you have got it.... Thanks."
Half an hour passed before the bell trilled again.
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