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. I drew a man that I guess was a servant: "Is Mr. Cokesbury home?" "Who is it?" "That doesn’t matter. I want to know if he’s home." "I don’t know, ma’am. Will you please give me your name?" "Say, you’re not taking the census or compiling a new directory, you’re answering the phone. Tell Mr. Cokesbury a party wants to see him on business." "I have orders, ma’am, not to bother Mr. Cokesbury with messages unless I know who they’re from," said the voice, and then I knew he _was_ there. "I’m sure he’ll come if you say it’s a _lady_," I said, sort of coaxing and sweet. "I’ll try, ma’am," said the voice, and I could hear the echo of his feet as he walked off. Presently he was back. "Beg pardon, ma’am, but Mr. Cokesbury says he can’t possibly come and please to give me the message." By that time I was getting mad. "You ought to get double pay, for you seem to be a District Messenger boy as well as a butler. If it’s not too much trouble would you mind telling me what Mr. Cokesbury’s friends do when they want a word with him over the phone?" "They tell the butler who they are and what they want, ma’am. That’s the orders in this house. Good-bye." When Babbitts and I were sitting at a table in a little dago joint near Broadway, I couldn’t help but tell him what I’d been doing.