Somehow, this sort of nonsense was helpful.  The girl raised her swimming eyes to his.  She placed two appealing hands on his shoulders, and said brokenly: 

“Mr. Theydon—­ I am ready to trust you—­ next to—­ my own father....  Where shall we go?  What can we do?  I’ll come with you—­ anywhere—­ only—­ my dear one must be rescued.”

He believed afterwards that he answered her by a kiss!  He was not certain.  The delirium of the moment was such that he could never recall its words or acts with that precision which a well-regulated mind should display even under the stress of intense emotion.  In any event, the crisis was interrupted by the clamor of the telephone bell.

Withdrawing from what was perilously near an embrace—­ so colorable an imitation of the real thing that Winter, entering at that instant, could make no distinction, and was secretly amazed at these strenuous methods of consoling the lady—­ Theydon lifted the receiver, and heard as one in a trance the telephone operator’s conventional announcement: 

“Trunk call from Croydon; you’re through.”

“Who is it?” demanded the chief inspector gruffly.

Even he, veteran fighter in the unceasing battle between the law and the malefactor, was feeling the strain of the Homeric struggle ushered in by the death of Edith Lester.

“I don’t know yet,” Theydon managed to say collectedly.  “Some one from Croydon.  Bend close.  You’ll hear.”

A quiet, drawling voice reached them, the vibrating wire lending its measured accents a metallic accuracy.

“That you, Mr. Theydon?”

“Why, it’s Mr. Handyside!  Yes, I’m here.  Where are you speaking from?  Croydon?”

“That’s so.”

“Well, I don’t understand, but I’m sure you’ll pardon me.  We are in a deuce of a fix at this end, so, if you’ll arrange to call tomorrow—­”

“You’ve lost Mrs. Forbes, I guess.  Is that the lady’s name?  If it is, I’ve kept track of her.  I—­”

Theydon was so astounded that he looked at Winter in blank amazement, the pressure of his fingers on the circuit key relaxed, and the American’s voice trailed abruptly away into silence.  He put matters right at once and heard the continuation of a new sentence, whereupon he broke in excitedly: 

“One second, Mr. Handyside.  Miss Forbes is here.  I must tell her your news!”

He turned to Evelyn.

“Hooray!” he almost yelled.  “Your mother is all right.  She is with Mr. Handyside.  Some sort of miracle has happened.  Come and listen.”

Aroused from a stupor of grief as though she had received a galvanic shock, Evelyn sprang up.  Naturally, she had to place an arm on Theydon’s back to permit of her head approaching near enough to the telephone.  Thus, the three heads were almost touching each other; if an artist had been present he would have obtained a study in facial expressions worthy of Phil May or Guerrido.