He glanced at his watch as he made for the stairs. It was ten minutes to 1 a.m. Up in the composing-room he went over the forms with the foreman, asking questions, "killing" perfectly good "stories" with rapid decision, clearing space for the biggest "scoop" which the Recorder had achieved in many months.
"Chief's not home and they don't know where he is," came Jackson's anxious voice through the speaking tube.
"Find him! Find him!" cried Brennan impatiently. "Try the National
Club. Use your head, Jackson!"
But when Brennan hurried downstairs a few minutes later McAllister had not been located yet.
"He went out somewhere with Wade, of the C.L.S., and left no word at the house as to when he'd be back," explained Jackson.
"Call up Wade, then."
"I did, but he's out too, and nobody seems to know where."
Brennan swore.
"Get me Nat Lawson on the 'phone. Say, Chic, where's Pardeau? What? Not back from that assignment? Then see if you can find him for me. The rest of you chop your stuff. Cristy Lawson owns the front page!"
Briefly he answered their eager questions, then turned to listen to Jackson, talking to the Lawson residence. Apparently Nathaniel Lawson was not at home either.