“I should like to see some of your work,” observed Mr. Bircham. “How long have you been in the habit of writing in Mr. Raeburn's organ?”
“For the last five years,” said Erica.
Mr. Bircham lifted his shaggy eyebrows at this, for Erica looked even younger than she really was. However, he made no comment, but took up the end of a speaking tube.
“Send up Jones with the file of 'Idol-Breakers' I ordered.”
Erica's color rose. Presently the answer from the lower regions appeared in the shape of the sedate clerk carrying a great bundle of last year's 'Idol-Breakers.'
“Perhaps you will show me one or two of your average articles,” said Mr. Bircham, and, while Erica searched through the bundle of papers, he took up one of the copies which she had put aside, and studied the outside page critically. “'The Idol-Breaker:' Advocate of Freethought and Secularism. Edited by Luke Raeburn.”
“They are slaves who dare not be In the right with two or three.”
Mr. Bircham put it down and began to watch her attentively. She was absorbed in her search, and was quite unconscious of his scrutiny. Even had she noticed him, she would not have understood what was passing in his mind. His little gray eyes grew bright; then he pushed back his wig impatiently; then he cleared his throat; finally he took snuff, sneezed violently, and walked to the window. When he returned he was even more dry and formal than before.
“These, I think, are fairly representative,” said Erica. “I have marked them on the margin.”
He took the three or four copies she handed to him, and began to look through one of the articles, muttering a sentence half aloud every now and then, and making little ejaculations which might have been either approval or disapproval.