“Do we bolt the ticket?”
Before he could answer, a telegraph boy came running up the stairs (this one actually did run) with a dispatch for Mr. Samboye. The editor opened and read it in a puzzled way at first, then more carefully and with a light of comprehension on his broad face. He folded the telegram up carefully, put it into his inner vest pocket and said to Seth:
“No, we occupy a picturesque position on the top rail of the fence.”
The editor did not seem quite himself that day. He stayed about the editorial room instead of going out to lunch, until the leader proof was ready, and then he asked to read it himself, instead of letting it go in the ordinary course to the proof-reader. He made a good many corrections on it, which was unusual for him. Finally, about half-an-hour before the paper went to press, he took his departure, saying briefly to Seth that he would not return that day.
Two hours later the office boy summoned Seth to the counting-room below. Mr. Workman sat alone at his desk, with the day’s Chronicle spread out before him, and with the original proof-sheet of the leader in his hand. He motioned Seth to close the doors, and to take a seat close beside him.
“You have read this leader?” he asked, after a moment’s silence.
“Yes.”
“What do you think of it?”
“I shouldn’t like to say all that I think of it.”
“Neither should I,” replied Mr. Workman with an iron-clad smile. He was very pale, and Seth scented a storm in the manner in which the grim smile faded from his face after an instant of hovering, as a gleam of wintry sunshine passes off the snow. “There’s a story—a very curious story—back of this leader. I only know part of it; perhaps you can help me to get at the rest.”