"Thanks awfully for the advice," snapped Faxon sarcastically. "But I'm not here to see you or Mr. Jenkins. I'm here to see Mr. Wynrod. And I'm here to see him privately—you hear—privately. If such a visit is not contrary to the rules of the office, or if Mr. Wynrod is allowed to decide such matters for himself...."
Good had kept his gaze fastened on Roger as Faxon spoke, and the flood of colour in the young man's face at the latter's innuendo, had not been lost on him. "You need say no more, Mr. Faxon," he interrupted suddenly. Then he turned to Roger. "Wynrod," he said slowly, as if measuring his words, "you know, I believe, who's boss of this paper. Act accordingly." With a low bow to Faxon and a nod to Jenkins, who followed him, he left the room.
"If you know who's boss," said Faxon with a sneer as the door closed, "they apparently don't."
"Appearances are frequently deceiving," said Roger shortly.
"I hope so," snapped Faxon, his face hardening, as he drew a folded newspaper from his pocket and threw it on the desk. "Now then, my boy, I'd like to know the meaning of this?"
"Of what?" asked Roger quietly.
"Oh, don't stall."
"I'm not stalling."
"You mean to say you don't know?" demanded Faxon with honest astonishment.
"You haven't seen fit as yet to tell me."