“It won't be any good your waiting this morning, Mr. Anthony. We have orders that no one is to disturb Mr. Bechcombe. It would be as much as my place is worth to knock at the door.”
“And how much is your place worth, old boy?” Tony questioned with a laugh, at the same time bringing down his hand with friendly heartiness on the managing clerk's back. “Come, I tell you I must see my uncle—honour bright, it is important.”
“It's no use, Mr. Anthony,” Thompson said firmly. “You can't see Mr. Bechcombe this morning. And, pardon me, but it may be as well in your own interests that you should wait until later in the day.”
Anthony laughed.
“What a quaint old bird you are, Thompson! Well, since my business is important, and I don't want you to lose your berth—wouldn't miss the chance of seeing your old phiz for anything—I shall go round and try what I can make of my uncle at his private door. I'll bet the old sport has some game on that he don't want you to know about, but he may be pleased to see his dear nephew.”
“Mr. Anthony—you must not, indeed—I cannot allow——”
Anthony put up his hand.
“Hush—sh! You will know nothing about it! Keep your hair on, Thompson!” With a laughing nod round at the grinning clerks he vanished, pulling the door to behind him with a cheerful bang.
A titter ran round the office. Anthony Collyer with his D.S.O. and his gay, irresponsible manners was somewhat of a hero to the younger clerks.
Amos Thompson looked grave. He knew that Luke Bechcombe had been intensely proud of his nephew's prowess in the War, he guessed that his patience had been sorely tried of late, and he feared that the young man might be doing himself serious harm with his uncle this morning. But he was powerless. There was no holding Tony Collyer back in this mood. Presently Thompson, listening intently, caught the sound of a distant knocking at his chief's door, twice repeated, then there was silence.