“H’m!” grunted Netherby Gomme drily—“you weren’t very long over your tea.”
“No.... As a matter of fact, I haven’t had any tea. I had to dodge the governor, so I popped into the office below to call on your little typewriter girl.”
Netherby Gomme moved peevishly in his chair:
“My dear Noll, for Heaven’s sake don’t call Julia my typewriter girl!” said he—“you’d think you were talking of a sewing-machine.”
Noll raised his eyebrows.
“But—she is a bit of a sewing-machine—when she isn’t typewriting.” He suddenly disappeared over the side of the stool and took up a defensive attitude beyond his desk. “Chuck it!” he bawled—“shut up, Netherby!... Put that ink-pot down and I’ll tell you the whole tragedy.”
Noll climbed on to his stool again as the keen glitter went out of Gomme’s eyes, and, sitting perched there with his back against the desk, he said calmly:
“Julia is missing!”
Gomme stared at him anxiously:
“Missing?”