'What!'
Hugo started, glancing round the vast room, which was in shadow except
where a solitary light threw its yellow glare on the dial of the clock.
'Are you there?' asked the voice patiently once again.
'It isn't'--something prompted him to use a Christian name--'it isn't
Louis?'
'Yes.'
'Where are you, then?' Hugo demanded.
'Not far off,' replied the mysterious voice in the telephone.
It was unmistakably the voice of Louis Ravengar, but apparently touched
with some new quality, some quality of resigned and dignified despair.
Hugo wondered where the man could be. And the sinister magic of the
telephone, which brought this sad, quiet voice to him from somewhere out
of the immensity of England, but which would not yield up the secret of
its hiding, struck him strangely.
'Are you there?' said the voice yet again.
'Yes.'
Hugo shivered, but whether it was from cold--he wore nothing but his
pyjamas--or from apprehension he could not decide.
'I'm saying good-bye,' said the voice once more. 'I suppose you mean to
have the police after me, and so I mean to get out of their way. See?
But first I wished to tell you--_crrrck cluck_--Eh? What?'
'I didn't speak.'
'It's these Exchange hussies, then. I wanted to tell you I've thought a
lot about our interview last night.
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