A few minutes later he was in the telephone box.
"Peter, I have seldom been so glad to hear your voice. Is all well? Good. Don't mention any names. Our guest is there, is he? Gone on strike against more milk puddings, you say. Coax him, Peter. Make a noise like a sturgeon, and he'll think it's caviare. Have you seen the papers? There are interesting doings in Belfast, which concern us rather intimately. I'll be down later, and we'll have a pow-wow."
He hung up the receiver and stepped out of the box.
"If, Algy," he remarked to a man who was looking at the tape machine outside, "the paper says a blighter's somewhere and you know he's somewhere else—what do you do?"
"Up to date in such cases I have always shot the editor," murmured Algy Longworth. "Come and feed."
"You're so helpful, Algy. A perfect rock of strength. Do you want a job?"
"What sort of a job?" demanded the other suspiciously.
"Oh not work, dear old boy. Damn it, man—you know me better than that, surely!"
"People are so funny nowadays," returned Longworth gloomily. "The most unlikely souls seem to be doing things and trying to look as if they were necessary. What is this job?"
Together the two men strolled into the luncheon-room, and long after the cheese had been finished, Algy Longworth was still listening in silence to his companion.
"My dear old bean," he murmured ecstatically as
