Barres walked slowly back to the desk, still dazed, but now thoroughly enraged and painfully conscious of a heavy swelling where the blow had fallen on his forehead.
In the superintendent’s quarters he found Soane, evidently just awakened after a sodden night at Grogan’s, trying to dress.
Barres said:
“There is nobody at the desk. Either you or Miss Kurtz should be on duty. That is the rule. Now, I’m going to tell you something: If I ever again find that desk without anybody behind it, I shall go to the owners of this building and tell them what sort of superintendent you are! And maybe I’ll tell the police, also!”
“Arrah, then, Misther Barres——”
“That’s all!” said Barres, turning on his heel. “Anything more from you and you’ll find yourself in trouble!”
And he went up stairs.
The lumpy pistol still lay there in the corridor; he picked it up and took it into the studio. The weapon 215 was fully loaded. It seemed to be of some foreign make—German or Austrian, he judged by the marking which had been almost erased, deliberately obliterated, it appeared to him.
He placed it in his desk, seated himself, explored his bruises gingerly with cautious finger-tips, concluded that the bridge of his nose was not broken, then threw himself back in his armchair for some grim and concentrated thinking.