fact that Wendy Washburn was standing at the open door, staring in at me. How much he had heard I didn't know, and couldn't tell. There was a smile about his lips, but his forehead wore a little wrinkle of troubled thought. I knew by his face that the eagle of curiosity was clawing at his vitals, that he was dying to know what had been said over that wire. But he was too much of a gentleman to ask me, if I was too much of a cynic to trust him. So his face was blank again as I coolly hung up the receiver and rose from my chair.
He stood waiting for me at the door. I didn't speak to him, at first, for I was afraid the sound of our voices would carry only too clearly up that wide stairway. And there was a sleeper above, I remembered, that it would be best not to waken.
But I found it hard to keep back a chuckle. For on his arm Wendy Washburn carried what was plainly a package of breakfast rolls, a bottle of cream, and a print of butter. In his hand he held a huge bunch of violets. Wendy, it was plain to see, had been making hay while the sun shone.
"You've made quite a haul of it this morning!" I casually remarked, with a nod toward his parcels.
He looked down at them apologetically.
"Oh, these!" he said, with his heat-lightning
