Apparently nothing at all had happened. He was at his old post, and Breede did nothing but explode fragments of words as ever. No talk of jail or betrayal of trust or of his morning's flagrant absence.
One might have thought that Breede himself played the waiting game. Or perhaps Breede only toyed with him. He fastened his gaze on the criminal cuffs. They were his rock of refuge in any cataclysm that might impend. If only he could keep those cuffs within his range of vision he would fear nothing. Patent laundry tubs; five dollars saved; why your husband failed in business; bright and interesting future—
"'Lo! 'Lo!" Breede was detonating into the desk-telephone which had sounded at his elbow.
"'Lo! Well? What? Run off! Stop nonsense! Busy!" He hung up the receiver.
"—also mus' be stipulated that case of div'dend bein' passed—"
The desk telephone again rang, this time more emphatically. Bean was chilled by a premonition that the flapper meant to pull off that funny stunt which was to cause him quite deliciously to die laughing.
Breede grasped the receiver again impatiently.
"Busy, tell you! No time nonsense! What! What. W-H-A-T!!!"
He listened another moment, then lessening his tone-production but losing nothing of intensity, he ripped out:
"Gur—reat Godfrey!"