“But we will see you go out—to the observation ward of the psychopathic division in some hospital if you waste any more time with this crazy talk.”
Roger, thinking quickly, decided that he was hearing a threat. Millman was not joking. If an astrologer, coming into the office, had recognized the man, either facing him or hidden under the desk, and for that knowledge had come near to being “sent West,” then it would not be put past such desperate people to believe they would deliberately put him into the ward where supposedly insane people are kept, while doctors studied their mentality.
That, he reflected swiftly, would effectively get him out of the way; and it would discredit his ideas.
“I was only joking. What’s the matter with everybody? Snap me up because I chased out past you to see what the shooting was for.”
“Well, get back to your work. Potts isn’t here. It’s up to you to keep things going till the Chief says differently.”
Roger looked defiant. He meant to see how far the man—or the pair, would go.
Doctor Ryder and Mr. Zendt, who had evidently been conferring on the upper floor about some biochemical condition of the disease the doctor was studying, heard the raised voice of the electrical engineer and came down the stairway.
“What’s going on?” asked Doctor Ryder, twisting his watch chain, which hung across his ample chest. Roger, who saw the big charm, which hung on the chain, flicking its golden back in the light, realized, with an inward start, that the doctor seemed to be telegraphing with that “heliographic” flicker, as a Boy Scout would use a mirror to send a message from his camp to another, from a hilltop.
“Oho!” Roger’s mind was alert, “So he’s telegraphing somebody.”
He hid his smile of triumph.