"I don't know what you're talking about. _Manicure_? I don't know any
manicure called Lorraine or anything else. I've never been manicured in
the Waldorf--or any other hotel--in the city. The woman is a liar----"
and so forth and so on, sputtering and fizzing along the wire. I had
hard work not to laugh and in the middle of it I hung up, for he had a
thin, high squeak on him like an old maid scared by a mouse.
Robinson was a sport, I liked _him_ fine:
"Don't apologize. It's the penalty of being called Robinson. Still
there's a bright side to every cloud. It might have been Smith, you
know."
It wasn't Robinson. He talked with a dialect that sounded like Jasper's,
English, I guess.
Dunham was very smooth and awful hard to get rid of. He kept on asking
questions and I had to think quick and speak unnaturally intelligent. In
the middle of it--I'd got what I wanted--I said it was too complicated
to tell over the phone and I'd be in to-morrow at two and my name was
Mrs. Pendleton.
It wasn't Dunham.
When I tackled Cokesbury I ran into the first snag. I tried his office
and a real pleasant young man (you get to know a young voice from an old
one) asked me what I wanted. I said business, and he answered:
"What is the nature of your business, Madam?"
"I'd rather tell that to Mr. Cokesbury," I said.
"Mr. Cokesbury doesn't like to be interrupted in the office. If you'll
tell me what you want to see him about----"
"Say, young feller," said I, in a cool, classy way, "suppose we stop
this pleasant little talk, and you trot into Mr. Cokesbury and say a
lady's waiting on the wire."
"Very well," he answered, calm and cheerful, "I'll do just as you say."
There was a wait and then he was back.
"Mr. Cokesbury says it's impossible for him to come to the phone and
will you kindly tell me what your business is."
"I guess I'll have to wait till he's not so busy," I answered, languid,
like I've heard ladies when they're mad and don't want to show it, and I
hung up.
Afterward I saw I'd made a mistake, for, when I called up two hours
later that polite guy was still on the job and handed me the same line
of talk.
I went into a drugstore and looked up Cokesbury--Edward L., residence.
It was in the East Fifties and at six I tried him there.