There was no signature. He waited patiently for the return of Edward or the messenger or of something—hang it all, something!
The little buzzer on his table buzzed gently and the telephone whispered into his ear that “Mrs. Demaine wished him to know that Mr. Demaine was found.” He had already asked “Where is he?” when he was cut off.
He had received so much information and no more when Edward returned with the information that the news had come in from Trunk Seven.
“What is Trunk Seven?” said the Prime Minister.
“I don’t know,” said Edward.
They sat together for a moment in silence. The Premier, as befitted his office, was a man of resource. Outside Westminster Bridge Underground Station men of insufficient capital but of economic ambition deal in the retail commerce of news. It occurred to the Prime Minister to reassure himself from their posters, and from a room that gave upon Westminster Bridge Road, his excellent eyesight—for it was among his points that his eyesight at fifty-four was still strong—perused the placards opposite.
They were clear enough.
“LOST MINISTER FOUND”
said the most decent.
“DEMAINE RESULT”