IV
Later that same afternoon a messenger boy entered Slack’s private office and delivered to him a sealed yellow envelope. It contained a marconigram in code, which, after some moments of patient study, Slack deciphered as follows:
Be prepared sensational news. Authorise papers print verbatim all despatches signed Musson. Keep strict watchout and wire explicit details regarding all strangers seeking to get to limits.
(Sgd.) “J.C.X.”
Slack’s fat hands trembled. His face became red and white by turns like one who has been discovered in a grievous blunder. He jabbed excitedly at a push-button to the side of his desk.
A lean, bespectacled man with a foxlike face responded from the outer office. “You wanted me, Mr. Slack?”
“Yes, Jackson, send a man to the docks right away,” cried Slack. “Tell him to look up a fellow named Hammond who has a pass out on the tug and bring him back here to me. Tell him to tell Hammond there’s been an oversight and I want to see him right away.”
The fox-faced man craned his neck at the south window of the office. “The tug’s gone, Mr. Slack,” he announced. “She’s a mile out in the lake now.”
Whereat Jackson discreetly withdrew while the Hon. J. J. Slack, M.P., made the air sing with dark, unparliamentary curses.