“The devil he has! When will he be back?”
“I don’t know—the last of the week, maybe.”
“Damn!”
Antrim laughed. “What ails you this morning? You look as if you’d had a bad night. Come inside and sit down—if you’re not too busy.”
Brant let himself in at the wicket in the counter-railing and drew up a chair.
“I am not busy enough—that is one of the miseries. And I want you to help me out, Harry. You have full swing here when the old man is away, haven’t you?”
“Why—yes, after a fashion. What has broke loose?”
Brant looked askance at the stenographer, and the chief clerk rightly interpreted the glance.
“O John,” he said, “I wish you would take these letters down and put them on No. 3. Hand them to the baggageman yourself, and then you’ll be sure they have gone.” And when the door closed behind the young man he turned back to Brant. “Was that what you wanted?”
“Yes, but I don’t know as it was necessary. There is nothing particularly private about what I want to say. You see, it is this way: Colonel Bowran is out on the Extension, and Grotter is with him. I am alone here in the office, and I’ve got to leave town suddenly. What I want you to do is to put somebody in there to keep house till the colonel returns.”