Let me give you this on account;
now go straight away and get a feed and a glass of wine. I'll have a
room ready for you when you get back."
Douglas drew a little breath. His fingers closed upon the piece of
gold. There was a glare in his eyes which was almost wolfish. He had
dared to let his thoughts rest for a moment upon food. He, who was
fighting the last grim fight against starvation. He spoke in a whisper,
for his voice was almost gone.
"How do you know that I shall come back?"
"I am content to risk it," the sub-editor answered, smiling. "Come back
in an hour's time and ask for Mr. Rawlinson."
Douglas staggered out, speechless. There was a sob sticking in his
throat and a mist of tears before his eyes.
CHAPTER XII
THE MAN WHO NEARLY WENT UNDER
At midnight a man sat writing at a desk in a corner of a great room full
of hanging lights, a hive of industry. All around him was the clicking
of typewriters, the monotonous dictation of reporters, the tinkling of
telephone bells. When they had set him down here, they had asked him
whether the noises would disturb him, but he had only smiled grimly.
They brought him pen and paper and a box of cigarettes--which he
ignored. Then they left him alone, and no sound in the great room was
more constant than the scratching of his pen across the paper.
Pages:
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92
93