“You’ve given too much space to that Herapath funeral,” he growled. “Take it away and cut it down to three-quarters.”
Triffitt made no verbal answer. He flung Markledew’s half-sheet of notepaper before the news editor, and the news editor, seeing the great man’s sprawling caligraphy, read, wonderingly:—
“Mr. Triffitt is released from ordinary duties to pursue others under my personal supervision. J. M.”
The news editor stared at Triffitt as if that young gentleman had suddenly become an archangel.
“What’s this mean?” he demanded.
“Obvious—and sufficient,” retorted Triffitt. And he turned, hands in pockets, and strolled out, leaving the proof lying unheeded. That was the first time he had scored off his news editor, and the experience was honey-like and intoxicating. His head was higher than ever as he sought the cashier and handed Markledew’s other note to him. The cashier read it over mechanically.
“Mr. Triffitt is to draw what money he needs for a special purpose. He will account to me for it. J. M.”
The cashier calmly laid the order aside and looked at its deliverer.
“Want any now?” he asked apathetically. “How much?”
“Not at present,” replied Triffitt. “I’ll let you know when I do.”