Part 26 (1/2)

David stood up. His chair fell over with a crash. He held on to the table to steady himself. Even Bulmer, white with rage, could not fail to see that he was stunned.

But d.i.c.key was not minded to spare him on that account.

”Answer me, you scoundrel!” he shouted, thrusting the paper almost into David's face. ”You are glib enough when it suits your purpose. Were _you_ in this? Is this the reason you didn't tell me Iris was on board till I forced the truth out of you last night?”

The managing clerk came in. Behind him, a couple of juniors and the office boy supplied reenforcements. They all had the settled conviction that their employer was a rogue, but he paid them in no n.i.g.g.ardly fas.h.i.+on, and they would not suffer anyone to attack him.

This incursion from the external world had a restorative effect on Verity. Being what is termed a self-made man, he had a fine sense of his own importance, and his subordinates' lack of respect forthwith overcame every other consideration.

”Get out!” he growled, waving a hand toward the door.

”But, sir--please, gentlemen----” stuttered the senior clerk.

”Get out, I tell you! D--n yer eyes, 'oo sent for any of you?”

Undoubtedly David was recovering. The discomfited clerks retired.

Even d.i.c.key Bulmer was quieted a little. But he still shook the newspaper under David's nose.

”Now!” he cried. ”Let's have it. No more of your flamin' made-up tales. Wot took you to shove the _Andromeda_ into a rat-trap of this sort?”

David staggered away from the table. He seemed to be laboring for breath.

”'Arf a mo'. No need to yowl at me like that,” he protested.

He fumbled with the lock of a corner cupboard, opened it, and drew forth a decanter and some gla.s.ses. A tumbler crashed to the floor, and the slight accident was another factor in clearing his wits. He swore volubly.

”Same thing 'appened that Sunday afternoon,” he said, apparently obvious of the other men's presence. ”My poor la.s.s upset one, she did.

Wish she'd ha' flung it at my 'ed. . . . Did it say 'went down with all 'ands,' mister?” he demanded suddenly of the reporter.

”Yes, Mr. Verity.”

”Is it true?”

”I trust not, but Lloyd's agent--well, I needn't tell you that Lloyd's is reliable. Was your niece on board? Is she the lady mentioned in the cablegram?”

Then Bulmer woke up to the fact that there was a stranger present.

”'Ello!” he cried angrily. ”Wot are you doin' ere? 'Oo are you? Be off, instantly.”

”I am not going until Mr. Verity hears what I have to ask him, and answers, or not, as he feels disposed,” was the firm reply.

”Leave 'im alone, d.i.c.key. It's all right. Wot does it matter now 'oo knows all there is to know? Just gimme a minnit.”

Verity poured out some brandy. Man is but a creature of habit, and the hospitable Lancastrian does not drink alone when there is company.

”'Ave a tiddly?” he inquired blandly.

Both Bulmer and the journalist believed that David was losing his faculties. Never did s.h.i.+powner behave more queerly when faced by a disaster of like magnitude, involving, as did the _Andromeda's_ loss, not only political issues of prime importance, but also the death of a near relative. They refused the proffered refreshment, not without some show of indignation. Verity swallowed a large dose of neat spirit. He thought it would revive him, so, of course, the effect was instantaneous. The same quant.i.ty of prussic acid could not have killed him more rapidly than the brandy rallied his scattered forces, and, not being a physiologist, he gave the brandy all the credit.

”Ah!” he said, smacking his lips with some of the old-time relish, ”that puts new life into one. An' now, let's get on with the knittin'.

I was a bit rattled when this young party steers in an' whacks 'is c.o.c.k-an'-bull yarn into me 'and. 'Oo ever 'eard of a respectable British s.h.i.+p mixin' 'erself up with a South American revolution? The story is all moons.h.i.+ne on the face of it.”