The sub-editor looked up sharply, with his pen poised in the air. Then Mr. Bodery read:

"Is Vellacott with you? Fear something wrong. Disappeared from here last night."

Mr. Morgan moved in his seat, stretching one arm out, while he pensively rubbed his clean-shaven chin and looked critically across the table.

"Who is it from?" he asked.

"Sidney Carew, the man he is staying with."

They remained thus for some moments; the editor looking at the telegram with a peculiar blank expression in his eyes; Mr. Morgan staring at him while he rubbed his chin thoughtfully with outspread finger and thumb.

In the lane beneath the window some industrious housekeeper was sweeping her doorstep with aggravating monotony; otherwise there was no sound.

At length Mr. Morgan rose from his seat and walked slowly to the window.

He stood gazing out upon the smoke-begrimed roofs and crooked chimneys.

Between his lips he held his pen, and his hands were thrust deeply into his trouser pockets. It was on that spot and in that att.i.tude that he usually thought out his carefully written weekly article upon "Home Affairs." He was still there when the editor touched a small gong which stood on the table at his side. The silent door instantly opened, and the supernaturally sharp boy stood on the threshold grimly awaiting his orders.

"Bradshaw."

"Yess'r," replied the boy, closing the door. His inventive mind had conceived a new and improved method of going downstairs. This was to lie flat on his back upon the bal.u.s.trade with a leg dangling on either side.

If the balance was correct, he slid down rapidly and shot out some feet from the bottom, as he had, from an advantageous point of view on Blackfriars Bridge, seen sacks of meal shoot from a Thames warehouse into the barge beneath. If, however, he made a miscalculation, he inevitably rolled off sideways and landed in a heap on the floor. Either result appeared to afford him infinite enjoyment and exhilaration. On this occasion he performed the feat with marked success.

"Guv'nor's goin' on the loose--wants the railway guide," he confided to a small friend in the printing interest whom he met as he was returning with the required volume.

"Suppose you'll be sitten' upstairs now, then," remarked the black-fingered one with fine sarcasm. Whereupon there followed a feint--a desperate lunge to one side, a vigorous bob of the head, and a resounding bang with the railway guide in the centre of the sarcastic youth's waistcoat.

Having executed a strategic movement, and a masterly retreat up the stairs, the small boy leant over the banisters and delivered himself of the following explanation:

"I 'it yer one that time. Don't do it agin. _Good_ morning, sir."

Mr. Bodery turned the flimsy leaves impatiently, stopped, looked rapidly down a column, and, without raising his eyes from the railway guide, tore a telegraph form from the handle of a drawer at his side. Then he wrote in a large clear style:

"Will be with you at five o'clock. Invent some excuse for V.'s absence.

On no account give alarm to authorities."

The sharp boy took the telegram from the editor's hand with an expression of profound respect upon his wicked features.

"Go down to Banks," said Mr. Bodery, "ask him to let me have two copies of the foreign policy article in ten minutes."

When the silent door was closed, Mr. Morgan wheeled round upon his heels, and gazed meditatively at his superior.

"Going down to see these people?" he asked, with a jerk of his head towards the West.

"Yes, I am going by the eleven-fifteen."

"I have been thinking," continued the sub-editor, "we may as well keep the printing-office door locked to-day. That slippery gentleman with the watery eyes meant business, or I am very much mistaken. I'll just send upstairs for Bander to go on duty at the shop door to-day as well as to-morrow; I think we shall have a big sale this week."

Mr. Bodery rose from his seat and began brushing his faultless hat.

"Yes," he replied; "do that. It would be very easy to get at the machinery. Printers are only human!"

"Machinery is ready enough to go wrong when n.o.body wishes it," murmured Mr. Morgan vaguely, as he sat down at the table and began setting the scattered papers in order.

Mr. Bodery and his colleagues were in the habit of keeping at the office a small bag, containing the luggage necessary for a few nights in case of their being suddenly called away. This expedient was due to Christian Vellacott's forethought.

The editor now proceeded to stuff into his bag sundry morning newspapers and a large cigar case. Telegraph forms, pen, ink, and foolscap paper were already there.

"I say, Bodery," said the sub-editor with grave familiarity, "it seems to me that you are taking much too serious a view of this matter.

Vellacott is as wide awake as any man, and it always struck me that he was very well able to take care of himself."

"I have a wholesome dread of men who use religion as a means of justification. A fanatic is always dangerous."

"A sincere fanatic," suggested the sub-editor.

"Exactly so; and a sincere fanatic in the hands of an agitator is the very devil. That is whence these fellows got their power. Half of them are fanatics and the other half hypocrites."

Mr. Bodery had now completed his preparations, and he held out his plump hand, which the subeditor grasped.

"I hope," said the latter, "that you will find Vellacott at the station to meet you--ha, ha!"

"I hope so."

"If," said Mr. Morgan, following the editor to the door--"if he turns up here, I will wire to Carew and to you, care of the station-master."

CHAPTER XV

BOOKS

The London express rolled with stately deliberation into Brayport station. Mr. Bodery folded up his newspapers, reached down his bag from the netting, and prepared to alight. The editor of the _Beacon_ had enjoyed a very pleasant journey, despite broiling sun and searching dust. He knew the possibilities of a first-cla.s.s smoking-carriage--how to regulate the leeward window and chock off the other with a wooden match borrowed from the guard.

He stepped from the carriage with the laboured sprightliness of a man past the forties, and a moment later Sidney Carew was at his side.

"Mr. Bodery?"

"The same. You are no doubt Mr. Carew?"

"Yes. Thanks for coming. Hope it didn't inconvenience you?"

"Not at all," replied the editor, breaking his return ticket.

"D----n!" said Sidney suddenly.

He was beginning to rise to the occasion. He was one of those men who are usually too slack to burthen their souls with a refreshing expletive.