And he dragged out a suit-case and began wildly throwing articles of toilet and apparel into it,

“Come on, Harry!” he shouted, hurling a pair of tennis shoes at the suit-case; “I’ve got to go while I’m excited or I’ll never budge!”

But when, ten minutes later, Annan arrived, suit-case in hand, ready for love’s journey, he could scarcely contrive to kick and drag Sam into the elevator, and, later, into a taxicab.

Ogilvy sat there alternately shivering and attempting to invent imperative engagements in town which he had just remembered, but Annan said angrily: 

“No, you don’t.  This makes the seventh time I’ve started with you for Estwich, and I’m going to put it through or perish in a hand-to-hand conflict with you.”

And he started for the train, dragging Sam with him, talking angrily all the time.

He talked all the way to Estwich, too, partly to reassure Ogilvy and give him no time for terrified reflection, partly because he liked to talk.  And when they arrived at the Estwich Arms he shoved Ogilvy into a room, locked the door, and went away to telephone to the Countess d’Enver.

“Yes?” she inquired sweetly, “who is it?”

“Me,” replied Annan, regardless of an unpopular grammatical convention.  “I’m here with Ogilvy.  May we come to tea?”

“Is Mr. Ogilvy here?”

“Yes, here at the Estwich Arms.  May I—­er—­may he bring me over to call on you?”

“Y-yes.  Oh, with pleasure, Mr. Annan....  When may I expect hi—­you?”

“In about ten minutes,” replied Annan firmly.

Then he went back and looked into Ogilvy’s room.  Sam was seated, his head clasped in his hands.

“I thought you might tear up your sheets and let yourself out of the window,” said Annan sarcastically.  “You’re a fine specimen!  Why you’re actually lantern-jawed with fright.  But I don’t care!  Come on; we’re expected to tea!  Get into your white flannels and pretty blue coat and put on your dinkey rah-rah, and follow me.  Or, by heaven!—­I’ll do murder right now!”

Ogilvy’s knees wavered as they entered the gateway.

“Go on!” hissed Annan, giving him a violent shove.

Then, to Ogilvy, came that desperate and hysterical courage that comes to those whose terrors have at last infuriated them.

“By jinks!” he said with an unearthly smile, “I will come on!”

And he did, straight through the door and into the pretty living room where Helene d’Enver rose in some slight consternation to receive this astonishingly pale and rather desperate-faced young man.

“Harry,” said Ogilvy, calmly retaining Helene’s hand, “you go and play around the yard for a few moments.  I have something to tell the Countess d’Enver; and then we’ll all have tea.”

“Mr. Ogilvy!” she said, amazed.

But Annan had already vanished; and she looked into a pair of steady eyes that suddenly made her quail.