A secretary entered and silently left some papers upon his desk. He retired voicelessly to wonder what fresh manipulation in the wheat world his employer was contemplating.
A junior entered with several telegrams. They, too, were silently deposited, and he vanished again to some distant corners of the offices.
Still Hendrie dreamed on, and still the telephone had no word to impart. His cigar was burning low. The aroma of its leaf was less delicate. Perhaps it was the latter that broke in on his dreaming, perhaps it was something else. He stirred at last, and dropped the lighted stump into a cuspidor, and thrust his chair back.
At that moment the bur-r-r of the telephone's dummy bell broke the silence. Without haste, without a sign of emotion he drew his chair forward again, and leisurely placed the receiver to his ear.
"Yes—Who's that?—oh!—Calford." Hendrie waited a moment, the fingers of his right hand drumming idly on his desk. Presently he went on: "Yes, yes—you are Calford. Who is it speaking?—Eh?—That you, Angus? Damn these long-distance 'phones, they're so indistinct!—Yes. This is Hendrie speaking. Well?—Oh. Finished, is it?—Yes. And?—oh—splendid. Five years—Good—Five years penitentiary. Excellent. Thanks. Good-bye."
He replaced the receiver and quietly began to deal with the accumulation of work which had lain so long untouched upon his desk.
PART III