“Right. Now nip down to Bealby, Miss Warren. Tell him he’s got to get ready for a two-page special now. He must threaten, bribe, shoot, do anything to keep the printers at the job. Then see Miss Halford and tell her she can’t go till she’s arranged for issue. Then please come back here; I shall want to dictate.”
“Certainly, Mr. Hastings,” said the girl, and walked quietly from the room.
Hastings looked after her, his forehead wrinkled. Sometimes he wished she were not so sufficient, so calmly adequate. Just now, for an instant, she had been trembling, white-faced, weak. Somehow the sight, even while he feared, had pleased him.
He shrugged his shoulders and turned to his desk.
“Lord!” he murmured. “Hoode murdered. Hoode!”
2
“That’s all the detail, then,” said Hastings half an hour later. Margaret Warren, neat, fresh, her golden hair smooth and shining, sat by his desk.
“Yes, Mr. Hastings.”
“Er—hm. Right. Take this down. ‘Cabinet Minister Assassinated. Murder at Abbotshall——’ ”
“ ‘Awful Atrocity at Abbotshall,’ ” suggested the girl softly.