“We’ve ordered a buggy to pick us up here in a few minutes to take us on to the hospital.”
“Nothing here yet,” she said, looking out over the top of the whiting on the window. “You’ve come at a distressing moment,” she went on lightly. “The oil engine has broken down.” She thought of Dane, and hoped he would not be cross at having to meet her father in his shirt sleeves. She led the way into the composing-room where everybody was going at top speed, and the runners, two at a time, working the printing press crank. There was no sign of Dane. He was down on his knees on the far side of the oil engine.
Valerie led her visitors up to Ryder and Johnson and introduced them. Davenport Carr had caught something of the spirit of that humming workroom. He had heard from Roger too of the Townshend job. And then he had more money than anyone else in this business.
“You’re doing tip-top work here, I believe,” he said with genuine appreciation. “Does she allow you any time to smoke?” And with a quizzical look at his daughter he handed his cigar case to the men.
“Thanks, sir. Yes, she does,” said Ryder warmly, for it was Valerie who had insisted on a ten-minutes’ spell in the morning and in the afternoon.
The visitors turned to the printing press, slowly and laboriously grinding out the papers. Just then Davenport Carr caught sight of the figure, that, unaware of their presence, had crawled round the oil engine at the other end of the room.
“What the deuce,” he began, and looked at Valerie who shot a mischievous glance back at him. He hesitated for a moment and then walked off. She followed with the Bishop.
Dane looked up as he felt the big form approaching,
