“Good-by.” It was the merest whisper from behind the door. But it echoed in the tones of a thousand golden hopes and dismal fears in the whirling brain of Average Jones as he walked back to his offices.
Two days later he sat at his desk, in a murk of woe. Nor word nor sign had come to him from Miss Sylvia Graham. He frowned heavily as Simpson entered the inner sanctum with the usual packet of clippings.
“Leave them,” he ordered.
“Yes, sir.” The confidential clerk lingered, looking uncomfortable. “Anything from yesterday’s lot, sir?”
“Haven’t looked them over yet.”
“Or day before’s?”
“Haven’t taken those up either.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Jones., but—are you ill, sir?”
“No,” snapped Average Jones.
“Ramson is inquiring whether he shall ship more beetles. I see in the paper that judge Ackroyd has sailed for Europe on six hours’ notice, so I suppose you won’t want any more?”