"Gentleman to see you, sir," he said, with great solemnity.
"What name?" asked Mr. Bodery.
"Wouldn"t give his name, sir--said you didn"t know it, sir."
Even this small office-boy was allowed his quantum of discretionary power. It rested with him whether an unknown visitor was admitted or politely dismissed to a much greater extent than any one suspected. Into his manner of announcing a person he somehow managed to convey his opinion as to whether it was worth the editor"s time to admit him or not, and he invariably received Mr. Bodery"s "Tell him I"m engaged" with a little nod of mutual understanding which was intensely comprehensive.
On this occasion, his manner said, "Have him in, have him in my boy, and you will find it worth your while."
"Show him in," said Mr. Bodery.
The nameless gentleman must have been at the door upon the boy"s heels, for no sooner had the words left Mr. Bodery"s lips than a tall, dark form slid into the room. So noiseless and rapid were this gentleman"s movements that there is no other word with which to express his mode of progression.
He made a low bow, and shot up erect again with startling rapidity. He then stood quietly waiting until the door had closed behind the small boy, who, after having punctiliously expectorated upon a silver coin which had found its way into the palm of his hand, proceeded to slide down the bal.u.s.trade upon his waistcoat.
It often occurred that strangers addressed themselves to Mr. Morgan when ushered into the little back room, under the impression that he was the editor of the _Beacon_. Not so, however, this tall, clean-shaven person.
He fixed his peculiar light-blue eyes upon Mr. Bodery, and, with a slight inclination, said suavely--
"This, sir, is, I believe, your printing day?"
"It is, sir, and a busy day with us," replied the editor, with no great warmth of manner.
"Would it be possible now," inquired the stranger conversationally, "at this late hour, to remove a printed article and subst.i.tute another?"
At these words Mr. Morgan ceased making some pencil notes with which he was occupied, and looked up. He met the stranger"s benign glance and, while still looking at him, deliberately turned over all the proof-sheets before him, leaving no printed matter exposed to the gaze of the curious.
Mr. Bodery had in the meantime consulted his watch.
"Yes," he replied, with dangerous politeness. "There would still be time to do so if necessary--at the sacrifice of some hundredweight of paper."
"How marvellously organised your interesting paper must be!"
Dead silence. Most men would have felt embarra.s.sed, but no sign of such feeling was forthcoming from any of the three. It is possible that the dark gentleman with the sky-blue eyes wished to establish a sense of embarra.s.sment with a view to the furtherance of his own ends. If so, his attempt proved lamentably abortive. Mr. Bodery sat with his plump hands resting on the table, and looked contemplatively up into the stranger"s face. Mr. Morgan was scribbling pencil notes on a tablet.
"The truth is," explained the stranger at length, "that a friend of mine, who is unfortunately ill in bed this morning--"
(Mr. Bodery did not look in the least sympathetic, though he listened attentively.)
"... has received a telegram from a gentleman who I am told is on the staff of your journal--Mr. Vellacott. This gentleman wishes to withdraw, for correction, an article he has sent to you. He states that he will re-write the article, with certain alterations, in time for next week"s issue."
Mr. Bodery"s face was pleasantly illegible.
"May I see the telegram?" he asked politely.
"Certainly!"
The stranger produced and handed to the editor a pink paper covered with faint black writing.
"You will see at the foot this--Mr. Vellacott"s reason for not wiring to you direct. He wished my friend to be here before the printers got to work this morning; but owing to this unfortunate illness--"
"I am afraid you are too late, sir," interrupted Mr. Bodery briskly.
"The press is at work--"
"My friend instructed me," interposed the stranger in his turn, "to make you rather a difficult proposition. If a thousand pounds will compensate for the loss incurred by the delay of issue, and defray the expense of paper spoilt--I--I have that amount with me."
Mr. Bodery did not display the least sign of surprise, merely shaking his head with a quiet smile. Mr. Morgan, however, laid aside his pencil, and placed his elbow upon the proof-sheets before him.
The stranger then stepped forward with a sudden change of manner.
"Mr. Bodery," he said, in a low, concentrated voice, "I will give you five hundred pounds for a proof copy of Mr. Vellacott"s article."
A dead silence of some moments" duration followed this remark. Mr.
Morgan raised his head and looked across the table at his chief. The editor made an almost imperceptible motion with his eyebrows in the direction of the door.
Then Mr. Morgan rose somewhat heavily from his chair, with a hand upon either arm, after the manner of a man who is beginning to put on weight rapidly. He went to the door, opened it, and, turning towards the stranger, said urbanely:
"Sir--the door!"
This kind invitation was not at once accepted.
"You refuse my offers?" said the stranger curtly, without deigning to notice the sub-editor.
Mr. Bodery had turned his attention to his letters, of which he was cutting open the envelopes, one by one, with a paper-knife, without, however, removing the contents. He looked up.
"To-morrow morning," he said, "you will be able to procure a copy from any stationer for the trifling sum of sixpence."
Then the stranger walked slowly past Mr. Morgan out of the room.
"A curse on these Englishmen!" he muttered, as he pa.s.sed down the narrow staircase. "If I could only see the article I could tell whether it is worth resorting to stronger measures or not. However, that is Talma"s business to decide, not mine."
Mr. Morgan closed the door of the small room and resumed his seat. He then laughed aloud, but Mr. Bodery did not respond.
"That"s one of them," observed Mr. Morgan comprehensively.
"Yes," replied the editor, "a dangerous customer. I do not like a blue-chinned man."
"I was not much impressed with his diplomatic skill."
"No; but you must remember that he had difficult cards to play. No doubt his information was of the scantiest, and--we are not chickens, Morgan."
"No," said Mr. Morgan, with a little sigh. He turned to the revision of the proof-sheets again, while the editor began opening and reading his telegrams.
"This is a little strong," exclaimed Mr. Morgan, after a few moments of silence, broken only by the crackle of paper. "Just listen here:--
""It simply comes to this--the General of the Society of Jesus is an autocrat in the worst sense of the word. He holds within his fingers the wires of a vast machine moving with little friction and no noise. No farthest corner of the world is entirely beyond its influence; no political crisis pa.s.ses that is not hurried on or restrained by its power. Unrecognised, unseen even, and often undreamt of, the vast Society does its work. It is not for us who live in a broad-minded, tolerant age to judge too harshly. It is not for us to say that the Jesuits are unscrupulous and treacherous. Let us be just and give them their due. They are undoubtedly earnest in their work, sincere in their belief, true to their faith. But it is for us to uphold our own integrity. We are accused--as a nation--of stirring up the seeds of rebellion, of crime and bloodshed in the heart of another country. Our denial is considered insufficient; our evidence is ignored. There remains yet to us one mode of self-defence. After denying the crime (for crime it is in humane and political sense) we can turn and boldly lay it upon those whom its results would chiefly benefit: the Roman Catholic Church in general--the Society of Jesus in particular. We have endeavoured to show how the followers of Ignatius Loyola could have brought about the present crisis in France; the extent to which they would benefit by a religious reaction is patent to the most casual observer; let the Government of England do the rest.""
Mr. Bodery was, however, not listening. He was staring vacantly at a telegram which lay spread out upon the table.
"What is the meaning of this?" he exclaimed huskily.