“Why, hello, Maddy—what in the world for?”
“I just want to see you. Seems ’s if I can’t get along another minute without seeing you!”
The voice at the other end of the wire gave a short, quick sound of laughter, but there was an uneasy note in it—almost a note of alarm.
“Why, my dear old thing—I can’t come now—I’m dressing. Aren’t you going to Emmy’s to-night?”
“Yes—but not till about eleven.”
“I know—but I’ve an errand first.”
“So’ve I. Look here, Rosamond, you’d better come over here. Slip into a little street frock and run over for a minute. You can walk it in no time—Harrison won’t know you’re out of the house.”
“But why? Why must I do that?” The voice was petulant now, and Madeleine’s became more commanding.
“Because I say so. Come along, now!”
She hung up the receiver with a snap, and summoned Claudine again.
“Dress me quickly,” she commanded, “all but my gown. Do my hair small and plain. Yes—flesh-colored stockings.”
The apt maid understood and with Madeleine’s approval did the dark, soft hair into a compact mass that was becoming but not elaborate.
By the time the negligée was thrown over the silken undergarments there came a light tap at the door.
“That will be Mrs. Sayre,” Madeleine said; “let her in, Claudine, and disappear.”
“Well, sweetie, what’s up?” and Rosamond Sayre dropped into an easy chair and lighted a cigarette.
“Just had to see you,” returned Madeleine, falling back on the chaise longue. “How’s your husband?”
“Harrison? Oh, he’s all right.”
