As the lad left the room, he sat back in his chair, and tried to think out the position of affairs. He had hardly settled himself down, before the messenger boy returned.
“’Scuse me, sir,” the lad began, “but summat curious hev ’appened. There’s two ‘holy Joes,’ in the Composing room, an’ one in the Sterio room—leastways, they oosed to be—an’ they’s all three bunked off, somewheres, nobody seed ’em go, an their coats an’ ’ats is ’ung hup where they ussally is, an’ some o’ the chaps says as they’s translated. Alf Charman, one o’ the comp’s, oosed to talk like Mr. ’Ammond did, sir——”
The boy looked a trifle fearsomely at the empty editor’s chair, as he added.
“Mr. ’Ammond, sir, I—er—I suppose as—’e—’e aint——.”
“Mr. Hammond has gone out!” Bastin rapped out the words quite sharply. All this talk of the missing men was getting on his nerves.
“That will do, Charley!” he added.
The lad walked slowly to the door, his eyes fixed on the placard, his lips moving to the words, “To-day?” “Perhaps!”
“Coorius!” he muttered as he passed out of the room.
Ralph Bastin tried again to settle himself down for a quiet think. Suddenly he started to his feet, wild of eye, and with horror in his face.
“Viola?” he muttered. “My beautiful little Viola? She has talked continuously of the Christ of late. Has she been——?”