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Updated: June 27, 2025
I always argue to myself that it is useless to trouble one's brain about results. I leave such matters to the good God. He will probably do just as well without my assistance." "You are a philosopher," said Mr. Bodery, with a pleasant and friendly laugh. "Thank Heaven yes! Look at my position. Fancy carrying in France to-day a name that is to be found in the most abridged history.
There was no mirth in it. It was a species of punctuation, and implied that Mr. Morgan had finished his remark. "I will ring for him now and see what he says about it." Mr. Bodery extended his chubby white hand and touched a small gong. Almost instantaneously the silent door opened and a voice from without said, "Yess'r." A small boy with a mobile, wicked mouth stood at attention in the doorway.
With him, as in all human plans, his own personal feelings came before the possible duty he owed to the public. He lay beneath the bramble undergrowth, and speculated as to what might have taken place subsequent to his disappearance. At that moment the fortunes of the Beacon gave him no food for thought. What Mr. Bodery and his subordinate might, or might not, think found no interest in his mind.
Morgan vaguely, as he sat down at the table and began setting the scattered papers in order. Mr. Bodery and his colleagues were in the habit of keeping at the office a small bag, containing the luggage necessary for a few nights in case of their being suddenly called away. This expedient was due to Christian Vellacott's forethought.
Bodery opened the door of the room upon the second floor of the tall house in the Strand that morning, he found Mr. Morgan seated at the table surrounded by proof-sheets, with his coat off and shirt-sleeves tucked up. The subeditor of the Beacon was in reality a good hard worker in his comfortable way, and there was little harm in his desire that the world should be aware of his industry.
When Christian passed out of the narrow doorway, and turned his face westward, his day's work was by no means over, as will be shown hereafter. As Mr. Bodery rolled his pencil up and down his blotting-pad, he was slowly realising the fact that something must be done. Presently he looked up, and his pleasant eyes rested on the bent head of his sub-editor.
He was too calm and comfortable also there was a suggestion of cigar smoke in his presence, which jarred. "I am sorry," said the Londoner, with genial self-possession, "to owe the pleasure of this visit to such an unfortunate incident." Molly felt that she hated him. "Then you have heard nothing of Christian?" said Mrs. Carew. "Nothing," replied Mr. Bodery, removing his tight gloves.
The editor now proceeded to stuff into his bag sundry morning newspapers and a large cigar case. Telegraph forms, pen, ink, and foolscap paper were already there. "I say, Bodery," said the sub-editor with grave familiarity, "it seems to me that you are taking much too serious a view of this matter.
There was no time to communicate with Mr. Bodery, so the only course open to him was to go by himself. In a vague manner he had connected the Jesuit party with the disturbances in Paris and the importation of the English rifles wherewith the crowd had been armed.
He could afford to joke on the subject now that the grass grew high in the little country churchyard where he had laid his young wife fifteen years before. In those days he was a grave, self-contained man, but that sorrow had entirely changed his nature. The true William Morgan only came out on paper now. Mr. Bodery was right.
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