‘And by the way, ‘ said Mr. Hankin, arresting Miss Rossiter as she rose to go, ‘there is a new copy-writer coming in today.’
‘Oh, yes, Mr. Hankin?’
‘His name is Bredon. I can’t tell you much about him; Mr. Pym engaged him himself; but you will see that he is looked after.’
‘Yes, Mr. Hankin.’
‘He will have Mr. Dean’s room.’
‘Yes, Mr. Hankin.’
‘I should think Mr. Ingleby could take him in hand and show him what to do. You might send Mr. Ingleby along if he can spare me a moment.’
‘Yes, Mr. Hankin.’
‘That’s all. And, oh, yes! Ask Mr. Smayle to let me have the Dairyfields guard-book.’
‘Yes, Mr. Hankin.’
Miss Rossiter tucked her note-book under her arm, closed the glass-panelled door noiselessly after her and tripped smartly down the corridor. Peeping through another glass-panelled door, she observed Mr. Ingleby seated on a revolving chair with his feet on the cold radiator, and talking with great animation to a young woman in green, perched on the corner of the writing-table.
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