“Did you kill this editorial?”
Marrineal’s frown changed to a smile. “Sit down, Mr. Banneker.”
“Marrineal, did you kill my editorial?”
“Isn’t your tone a trifle peremptory, for an employee?”
“It won’t take more than five seconds for me to cease to be an employee,” said Banneker grimly.
“Ah? I trust you’re not thinking of resigning. By the way, some reporter called on me last week to confirm a rumor that you were about to resign. Let me see; what paper? Ah; yes; it wasn’t a newspaper, at least, not exactly. The Searchlight. I told her—it happened to be a woman—that the story was quite absurd.”
Something in the nature of a cold trickle seemed to be flowing between Banneker’s brain and his tongue. He said with effort, “Will you be good enough to answer my question?”
“Certainly. Mr. Banneker, that was an ill-advised editorial. Or, rather, an ill-timed one. I didn’t wish it published until we had time to talk it over.”
“We could have talked it over yesterday.”
“But I understood that you were busy with callers yesterday. That charming Mrs. Eyre, who, by the way, is interested in the strikers, isn’t she? Or was it the day before yesterday that she was here?”