CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
AT noon of the next day I gave Fox his look in at his own flat. He was stretched upon a sofa—it was evident that I was to take such of his duties as were takeable. He greeted me with words to that effect.
"Don't go filling the paper with your unbreeched geniuses," he said, genially, "and don't overwork yourself. There's really nothing to do, but you're being there will keep that little beast Evans from getting too cock-a-hoop. He'd like to jerk me out altogether; thinks they'd get on just as well without me."
I expressed in my manner general contempt for Evans, and was taking my leave.
"Oh, and—" Fox called after me. I turned back. "The Greenland mail ought to be in today. If Callan's contrived to get his flood-gates open, run his stuff in, there's a good chap. It's a feature and all that, you know."
"I suppose Soane's to have a look at it," I asked.
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