and told the police in spite of his own shame?
"Mr. Kirby!" he cried in a changed voice into the little black cup, "Mr. Kirby!" The wire was dumb, there was only the buzzing and spitting and little fiendish snarls which the marvellous invention has added to modern life. "Mr. Kirby!" said Jimmy still higher and for the third time, but it was a woman's voice that answered—
"Another three minutes?" it said snappishly, and then the wire went dead.
Twice more and once again did poor Jimmy implore the voice, but Mr. Kirby knew the nature of man, especially of youthful man. He had not attempted to persuade. In the study of his own house at Ormeston he had already replaced the receiver, and was taking down from the book-shelf a volume of Molière. He loved that author, and there was a good two hours before he need meet the night mail at the station.
After a quarrel with the clerk-in-charge and sundry foolish troubles, Jimmy abandoned the machine. He came back to his two companions. They were in the thick of some silly vinous argument or other. They looked up at his entry, and they saw that he was changed.
