In the office strange things were whispered. But Jack alone knew the truth.
The most irritating fact to him was that Jerome Jerrold, just as he had discovered Rodwell’s birth and masquerading, had died.
Why?
Why had Lewin Rodwell rung up his new friend, Trustram, just before poor Jerome’s death? Why had Jerome asked to see his friend Sainsbury so particularly on that night? Why had he locked his door and taken his life at the very moment when he should have lived to face and denounce the man who, while an alien enemy, was posing as a loyal subject of Great Britain?
Of these and other things—things which he had discussed on the previous night with Elise—he was thinking deeply, when a lad entered saying:
“Mr Charlesworth wants to see you, sir.” He rose from his chair and ascended in the lift to the next floor. On entering the manager’s room he found Mr Charlesworth, the catspaw of Sir Boyle, seated in his padded chair, smoking a good cigar.
“Oh—er—Sainsbury. I’m rather sorry to call you in, but the directors have decided that as you are of military age they are compelled, from patriotic motives, to suggest to you that you should join the army, as so many of the staff here have done. Don’t you think it is your duty?”
Jack Sainsbury looked the manager straight in the face.
“Yes,” he said, with a curious smile. “I quite agree. It certainly is my duty to resign and take my part in the defence of the country. But,” he added, “I think it is somewhat curious that the directors have taken this step—to ask me to resign.” Charlesworth, an estimable man, and beloved by the whole of the staff of the company at home and abroad, hesitated a moment, and then replied:
“Unfortunately I am only here to carry out the orders of the directors, Sainsbury. You have been a most reliable and trusted servant of the company, and I shall be only too pleased to write you a good testimonial. You will have half-pay during the time you are absent, of course, as the others have.”