He flung himself out of the room and called the girl in the outer office.
“I want to see the principal of the firm,” he shouted. “It’s important. Either Mr. Horton or Mr. Lavender will do. As soon as possible, please.”
The girl seemed half startled and half amused. “Who did you want to see?” she asked.
“Mr. Horton or Mr. Lavender,” Cheyne repeated firmly, fixing her with a wrathful stare.
“I—I’m afraid I don’t know where they are,” she stammered, the corners of her mouth twitching. Yes, she was laughing at him. Confound her impertinence also!
“You don’t know?” he shouted furiously. “When will they be in?”
The girl looked scared, then her amusement evidently overcame her apprehension and she giggled.
“Not today, I’m afraid,” she answered. “You see Mr. Horton has been dead over ten years and Mr. Lavender at least five.”
Cheyne glared at her as he asked thickly:
“Then who is the present principal?”