“Mr. Armstrong in, Edwards?” asked Roberts directly.
The man shook his head.
“Been here, has he?”
“Not since he left this morning; about ten o’clock it was.”
Roberts paused, his hand on the clutch lever.
“Will you have him ’phone me when he comes, please?” 269
“Yes, certainly.”
“Thank you.”
The next stop was at the office, dark with a Sabbath darkness; but not for long. Within the space of a few minutes after he came, every light switched on, the windows open wide, his coat dangling from a chair in the corner, Roberts was at work upon a small mountain of correspondence collected upon his desk, a mountain of which each unit was marked “personal” or “private.” At almost the same time a waiter from a near-by café entered with a tray of sandwiches and coffee. Thereafter he ate as he worked.
An hour passed. The sandwiches disappeared entirely and the mountain grew slightly smaller. A second hour dragged by and the mountain suffered a second decline. For the first time Roberts halted and glanced at the clock. A moment later he took down the receiver from the ’phone on his desk and gave a number.