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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 " " ... has received a telegram from a gentleman who I am told is on the staff of your journal Mr. Vellacott.
"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.
As the young fellow rode along, immersed in meditation, he heard the sound of carriage-wheels, and, looking up, recognised his own grey horse and dog-cart. Mr. Bodery was driving, and driving hard. On seeing Sidney he pulled up, somewhat recklessly, in a manner which suggested that he had not always been a stout, middle-aged Londoner.
There were half-a-dozen deep armchairs, a divan, and two or three small tables beyond that nothing. Sidney's father had furnished it thus, with a knowledge and appreciation of Oriental ways. It was not a study, nor a library, nor a den; but merely a smoking-room. Mr. Bodery had lighted an excellent cigar, and through the thin smoke he glanced persistently at the Vicomte d'Audierne.
He was one of those men who are usually too slack to burthen their souls with a refreshing expletive. "What is the matter?" inquired Mr. Bodery gravely. "There is a man," explained Sidney hurriedly, "getting out of the train who is coming to stay with us. I had forgotten his existence. Don't look round!" Mr. Bodery was a Londoner. He did not look round.
They were quite close together, and Hilda was talking persistently and gaily to the Vicomte d'Audierne. "The London police are here already," whispered Sidney; "shall I say anything about Vellacott?" "No," replied Mr. Bodery, after a moment's reflection. "I am going to ride over to Porton Abbey with them now." "Right," replied the editor, returning to the table with his plate.
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."
Why do you ask?" inquired Sidney, who was getting rather puzzled. "I know nothing of him personally except what I have learnt to-day. For my own part, I like him," answered Mr. Bodery. "He is keen and clever. Moreover, he is a thorough gentleman. But, politically speaking, he is one of the most dangerous men in France. He is a Jesuit, an active Royalist, and a staunch worker for the Church party.
Morgan, following the editor to the door "if he turns up here, I will wire to Carew and to you, care of the station-master." The London express rolled with stately deliberation into Brayport station. Mr. Bodery folded up his newspapers, reached down his bag from the netting, and prepared to alight.
Unconsciously he put his hand to his forehead, which was damp with the heat of the printing-office which he had just left. "My dear fellow," said Mr. Bodery gravely, emphasising his remarks with the pencil, "you have one thing in life to learn yet no doubt you have many, but this one in particular you must learn. Work is not the only thing we are created for not the only thing worth living for.
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