No, that's all.
He watched Drains retreat into the kitchen, and then he boldly opened the book at B and began to look for Blake. There, beyond doubt, was the number: Beckford Blake, 56 East Thirty-seventh Street—Murray Hill 0007. Drains entered the dining-room. Pretending to lose all interest in the book, Harold waited until Drains returned to the kitchen. Finally, he mustered the courage to approach the telephone.
Murray Hill 0007, please, he whispered.
Asked to repeat the number, he looked around; Drains seemed very distant. He ventured to raise his voice slightly. This time the operator caught the number. There was a slight noise in the kitchen. Harold dropped the receiver and hastened back to his chair in the living-room, propping himself up behind the Globe. Presently Drains, on his way to market, slammed the front door. Harold returned to the telephone.
Which Miss Blake? queried a woman's voice at the other end of the wire.
Miss Alice Blake.
Just a moment. I will see.
A short silence.
Yes, this is Miss Blake. Who is this?
Miss Alice Blake?
Yes. Who is this?
Harold, Harold Prewett. You know, I took you home today.
