Unexpected Night by Elizabeth Daly

turned and was about to butt his way through the bead portière when Mitchell addressed him:
    â€œSay, young feller. You take messages here for Seal Cove?”
    The artist swung around, rage in his eye. “You can go down there yourself, and deliver your message,” he said furiously.
    â€œOh, I’m going. I didn’t ask you to take one,” explained Mitchell. “I asked you if you did take ’em.”
    â€œIf we’d known it was going to be a whole week, instead of a day or so, we shouldn’t have agreed to do it at all. Perfect nuisance,” scolded the young man. “I was glad to oblige Callaghan; we have friends in the outfit, and we’re doing some of his scenic designing for him. But really, what with the telephone calls and the telegrams, we haven’t had a minute’s peace. We take the receiver off the hook, now, at night. If we didn’t—”
    Another youth, short, and with a bumpy forehead and thick tow-coloured hair, appeared in the doorway. He was dressed like his colleague; in fact, exactly like him; but, instead of a palette and brush, he carried a roll of gilt paper and a pair of scissors.
    â€œWhat’s the trouble?” he enquired.
    â€œNo trouble, I hope.” Mitchell was ominously mild. “I wanted some information. Perhaps you’ll furnish it; any reference to telephone messages for the Cove seems to send this friend of yours right off his head.”
    â€œYou wouldn’t be surprised at that, if you knew what it’s been like. Now the audience is beginning to call up, asking us what the plays are, and all sorts of things. We don’t know what they are,” squeaked the tow-headed artist, indignantly. “Callaghan won’t say.”
    â€œRather hard on a scenic designer, I should think,” murmured Gamadge.
    â€œYou don’t know that Irishman. ‘Atmosphere!’ he yells. ‘Don’t you worry yourselves about atmosphere. There’s more atmosphere down on that pier than we can make use of. You just paint me a flight of stairs in perspective, and we’ll put the atmosphere in.’”
    â€œTrying.”
    â€œAll I want to know,” persisted Mitchell, “is about that telephone message from the Harbour Inn at Portsmouth, last evening. What time would you say it must have come, Mr. Sanderson?”
    â€œLet’s see; about eight, I should think. He was alone, then, for a few minutes. I thought he was asleep. How he ever got the strength, I don’t know.”
    â€œA telephone call from Portsmouth, about eight o’clock. For Mr. Arthur Atwood.”
    The taller artist exclaimed, violently: “Do you suppose we remember the things? We’ve had hundreds—”
    â€œThousands,” said the short one.
    â€œStuff and nonsense. You had to write messages down, if you meant to deliver ’em. Is Callaghan paying you for the job?”
    â€œNaturally, we are being compensated. The recipients pay him, and he pays us.” The dour young man glared at Mitchell. “Of course we deliver the messages.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œSend down. They can’t expect to get the things in five minutes; but they do, sometimes.”
    â€œWell, anyway, you must keep a record. If you’d rather not go into your files now, you can come down to the Centre to-morrow, and give evidence at the inquest. I thought I’d save you the trouble.”
    â€œWhat inquest? What are you talking about?”
    â€œNow, Bobbie!” His tow-headed friend seized him by the arm. “Let me handle this. Who’s dead, Mr.—er—”
    â€œMitchell. The young fellow that put in the telephone call died suddenly, and we want to check up on the message.”
    â€œOh, I see; or rather, I don’t. Anyhow, we were both out for supper last night, and there was a dance afterwards at the Sunflower Studio. Bob’s still feeling the effects, as you may have