The Counsellor by J. J. Connington

Author:J. J. Connington [Connington, J. J.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781471906367
Publisher: Orion Publishing Group
Published: 2014-06-14T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eleven

The Troubles of a Typist

SANDRA RAINHAM did not return to the office until well on in the forenoon of the following day. When she arrived, The Counsellor and Standish were in conference in Brand’s private office, but she had no hesitation in interrupting them.

“Sorry to break into the pow-wow,” she apologised, as she shut the door behind her “but I expect you want to hear the results, Mark.”

“Right, first guess,” confirmed The Counsellor. “What about it?”

“Here’s your transfer, just to set your mind at ease.”

Sandra produced the paper and handed it to The Counsellor, who passed it over to Standish.

“Get it registered immediately, Wolf. Time’s getting short. Yes, Sandra?”

“Will you have it short and snappy, or long and detailed?”

“Make it as short as you can, but keep in all the details,” said The Counsellor, with the air of one making a just decision. “All the important details,” he added hastily, as he saw a gleam of mischief in Sandra’s eye.

“Very well. This is how it is,” she began, borrowing one of The Counsellor’s favourite openings. “I didn’t see myself going down there and simply asking one of these girls point-blank to sell her share. Too crude, that, for my taste; and apt to cause chatter. Besides, I wanted an excuse for a general look-round. You and Wolf have been busy in the clue-hunting business, and I didn’t see why I should be left out in the cold. So I cast about for a suitable disguise. It’s quite simple. You just take a few of your visiting cards to a jobbing printer and get him to put the name of a good newspaper in the south-west corner. Then you sharpen some pencils at both ends and buy a notebook. And that converts you into the best kind of lady journalist on the hunt for copy, and gives you a free hand in asking all sorts of inquisitive questions which might be resented if you were a private person.”

“Not so bad,” commented Standish. “Dishonest, of course; but one gets that way, in an office like this.”

“I went down to the Black Bull and took a room for the night. As soon as I arrived, I interviewed the landlady and left her under the impression that I was the latest thing from Fleet Street. You know what these little places are? My profession would be all over the village before a hen could scratch twice.”

“The rural touch,” commented The Counsellor. “Getting the atmosphere. Go on.”

“I went up to Longstoke House, sent in my card, and asked for Mr. Albury. You’d seen the Whitgift man, so I thought I might begin with someone else. I saw him. He’s a big man with an eye for a smartly-dressed girl. An uncomfortable eye. Too much of the strip-tease act about it altogether, for my liking. I disliked him on sight, but that had nothing to do with the matter in hand. I explained that naturally Fleet Street was horrified at Mr. Treverton’s demise—yes, I said demise—and was burning for a few anecdotes about his life and character.

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