XI

Gay waked with a start to realize that the telephone bell was ringing. She said something short and sharp, sat up, and switched on the light. Her watch made it half past twelve, an hour which seems quite early when you are out but feels like the middle of the night when you have gone to bed. It felt like the middle of the night to Gay. Who in this world and all could be ringing up at such a ghastly time? She sat listening and hoping against hope that the thing hadn’t rung, or that, having rung without getting an answer, it wouldn’t ring again.

It rang again-a very persevering effort.

Gay ran barefoot down the stairs, switching on lights as she went, a dressing-gown hung dolman-fashion across her shoulders and clutched together in front. Aunt Agatha would sleep through a duet between Big Ben and the Westminster Chimes. The staff firmly disregarded any telephone call between eleven at night and seven in the morning.

The bell was still ringing when Gay snatched the receiver and said in an abusive whisper.

“Who are you?”

But of course she might have guessed. Sylvia said in a plaintive voice,

“Oh, darling, you do sound cross.”

“Homicidal!” said Gay. “What’s the matter? Do you know what time it is?”

“Darling, it’s quite early.”

“That’s because you’re turning night into day. I was in bed and asleep, and I haven’t even got my dressing-gown on properly. I’ve come down five flights of stairs, and the temperature is somewhere round about zero.”

She heard Sylvia catch her breath.

“Darling, how did you hear it up five flights of stairs?”

This was pressure upon a wound. Gay spoke with bitterness.

“I didn’t-no one could. That’s why Aunt Agatha had a bell fixed up on my floor. It’s supposed to be for the staff, but they just won’t. Is this a talk on telephones, or do you really want anything?”

“Oh, I do.” Sylvia’s voice changed. “Gay, I’m so frightened-I just had to ring you up.”

“What are you frightened of? What have you been doing?”

“Nothing-I haven’t really. But I shall have to. It’s-it’s so dreadful to have it coming nearer and nearer.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You see, I’ve been out all day. I went shopping with Poppy, and we lunched together, and then we watched a mannequin show, and I had three cocktail parties, and I was going to dine with Mr. Brewster but fortunately I remembered about being engaged to Linda, and Francis had gone off to Birmingham or somewhere, so I took Mr. Brewster instead. And I liked it awfully. I wore my gold dress, you know, and I had a lot of compliments-”

“Sylly, what are you talking about?”

“Linda Westgate’s party. Oh, and your Algy Somers was there.”

Gay denied him with vehemence.

“He’s not my Algy Somers!”

“Oh, I thought he was.” Sylvia was vague and amiable. “But perhaps you’d better not, because Linda and Francis wouldn’t like it if I let him take me out. No, really-she meant there was something wrong, only she wouldn’t tell me what it was, and Mr. Brewster wouldn’t either.”

“Sylly, this is pure drivel. Have you got anything to say or haven’t you? Because if you have, get on with it, and if you haven’t, I’m going back to bed. There isn’t any central heating in this house, and I’ve probably got frost-bite already.”

Sylvia, in a temperature mounting to 70°, was without sympathy.

“You see,” she pursued, “I quite forgot about it all day-at least not quite but almost-but as soon as I came in and got up to my own room I felt dreadful again, because I know he’ll make me do it, and I simply can’t think what will happen if Francis finds out. And he will-I’m sure he will. He-he guesses things, and comes down on you like lightning.”

“Sylly, listen!” Gay spoke firmly. “You’re not to do anything at all. If this man wants you to take papers for him, you’re not to do it.”

“I shall have to-he’ll tell Francis if I don’t.”

“Tell Francis yourself, then you’ll be all clear. If you take these papers you’ll be in the worst hole you’ve ever been in in your life.”

“Darling, it’s not papers.”

Gay stamped, and wished she hadn’t. Her foot was cold, and the floor pure ice.

“You said it was.”

“No, it’s his keys-Francis’ keys.” Her tone suddenly brightened. “How stupid of me! I needn’t have worried. Because Francis is away. He got a telegram and he went off, and of course he took his keys, so no one, not even that horrid Zero man, could make me do anything about them tonight. I can just go off to bed and not bother. And I needn’t have rung you up, but I’ve loved talking to you. Good-night, darling.”

Gay didn’t say good-night. She pitched the receiver back on to its hook and ran violently up five flights of stairs to her room, where she took a flying leap into the bed and called her hot water bottle to witness that the telephone might ring itself blue in the face if it liked, but if it thought she was going to answer, it could think again.

Sylvia hung up at her end with a little satisfied sigh. It was beautifully simple. Francis wasn’t here, and his keys weren’t here, so she couldn’t take them. Even Mr. Zero must see that. She needn’t have worried at all. She began to hum a little tune to herself as she moved to and fro in her room.

And then all of a sudden it came to her that Mr. Zero would be waiting outside the dining-room window from one to two, and it would look so very odd if anyone saw him. They might think all sorts of things, or they might arrest him, and if he was arrested, there was no knowing what he might tell the police. She thought she had better go down and tell him to go away. She could open just a little bit of the dining-room window and say, “It’s no good-Francis isn’t here,” and Mr. Zero would go away and they could all go to bed. It was a very comfortable plan.

She looked at the little crystal clock beside her bed, and saw that it was a quarter to one. That would give her time to take off her gold dress and put it away and get into a dressing-gown. She could fill in the time with brushing her hair.

When she had done all these things, she looked at the clock again. Just on one o’clock. She opened her bedroom door and looked out. A light burned there all night. It was one of the things that made Sylvia feel safe and rich. Poor Mummy was always so dreadfully cross if you left a light on for a single minute. Of course she couldn’t help it, poor darling-she just had to scrimp and save, but it was dreadfully wearing. So now a light burned all night long upon every floor, and Sylvia, waking and turning over, could see a golden thread lying across her door-sill and go to sleep again feeling oh, so thankful not to be poor Sylvia Thrale any more.

She went to the head of the stairs and looked over. She could see the drawing-room door, and the light shining on the pale green stair-carpet. That made her feel good too, because you couldn’t expect a colour like that to wear, and it didn’t matter-most joyfully it didn’t matter.

She trailed her white crepe dressing-gown down to the next flight. From there she could see the hall, and a corner of the fireplace, and the dining-room door. Walls and woodwork were a pale, bright primrose. There was a scarlet rug, and a table, a screen and a clock in scarlet lacquer. As she came through the hall, the clock struck one with a keen, ringing note. She stood with her hand on the dining-room door and waited for the sound to die away. Then she went in, not putting on the light, but leaving the door wide behind her. She could find her way to the window in the dark, and what she had to say need not take a minute.

There were two windows of the old-fashioned sash type. She reached the nearer one and slid back the catch, standing between the heavy violet curtain and the glass. A coldness came from it. She shivered and pulled up the swansdown collar of her wrap. Then she stooped to raise the window.