Anthony’s hand went to his breast pocket. From a leather wallet he took a bunch of newspaper cuttings.
“These,” he said, “I found in a really-truly secret drawer in your late chief’s desk. Know anything about ’em? Or why they were there?”
In silence, Deacon read each slip. When he had finished,
“Well?” Anthony said.
“They mean nothing in my young life. These three rags—The Searchlight, The St. Stephen’s Gazette, and the weekly one, Vox Populi—always were dead agin the boss. I can’t make head or tail of what you’re driving at, Gethryn, I can’t really!”
Anthony groaned. “There you go again. Never mind that, but tell me, did you know Hoode was keeping these cuttings?”
“No.”
“Did he ever mention the persistent attacks of these three papers?”
“No.”
“No? Pity.” Anthony got to his feet. “I must move. Anything you want? Books? Food? Tobacco?”