“I was looking for Billy Bertram,” stammered Galbraithe. “Guess he must have shifted his desk.”
He glanced hopefully at the other desks in the room, but he didn’t recognize a face.
“Bertram?” inquired the man who occupied Bertram’s desk. He turned to the man next to him.
“Say, Green, any one here by the name of Bertram?”
Green lighted a fresh cigarette, and shook his head.
“Never heard of him,” he replied indifferently.
“He used to sit here,” explained Galbraithe.
“I’ve held down this chair for fifteen months, and before me a chump by the name of Watson had that honor. Can’t go back any farther than that.”
Galbraithe put down his suit case, and wiped his forehead. Every one in the room took a suspicious glance at the bag.
“Ever hear of Sanderson?” Galbraithe inquired of Green.