The door was flung open. In rushed Dickey Bulmer with a speed strangely disproportionate to his years. In his hands he held a crumpled newspaper.
"You infernal blackguard, have you seen this?" he roared, and his attitude threatened instant assault on the dazed man looking up at him. The reporter moved out of the way. Here, indeed, was "copy" of the right sort. Bulmer held a position of much local importance. That he should use such language to the owner of the Andromeda promised developments "of the utmost public interest."
David stood up. His chair fell over with a crash. He held on to the table to steady himself. Even Bulmer, white with rage, could not fail to see that he was stunned.
But Dickey was not minded to spare him on that account.
"Answer me, you scoundrel!" he shouted, thrusting the paper almost into David's face. "You are glib enough when it suits your purpose. Were you in this? Is this the reason you didn't tell me Iris was on board till I forced the truth out of you last night?"
The managing clerk came in. Behind him, a couple of juniors and the office boy supplied reënforcements. They all had the settled conviction that their employer was a rogue, but he paid them in no niggardly fashion, and they would not suffer anyone to attack him.
This incursion from the external world had a restorative effect on Verity. Being what is termed a self-made man, he had a fine sense of his own importance, and his subordinates' lack of respect forthwith overcame every other consideration.
"Get out!" he growled, waving a hand toward the door.
"But, sir—please, gentlemen——" stuttered the senior clerk.
"Get out, I tell you! D—n yer eyes, 'oo sent for any of you?"