through cunningly contrived peepholes—those of Tuppence, in the intervals of frenzied typing, and those of Tommy awaiting the suitable moment.
Presently a bell rang with violence on Albert’s desk.
“The Boss is free now. I will find out whether he can see you,” said Albert, and disappeared through the door marked “Private.”
He reappeared immediately.
“Will you come this way, sir?”
The visitor was ushered into the private office, and a pleasant faced young man with red hair and an air of brisk capability rose to greet him.
“Sit down. You wished to consult me? I am Mr. Blunt.”
“Oh! really. I say, you’re awfully young, aren’t you?”
“The day of the Old Men is over,” said Tommy waving his hand. “Who caused the War? The Old Men. Who is responsible for the present state of unemployment? The Old Men. Who is responsible for every single rotten thing that has happened? Again I say, the Old Men!”
“I expect you are right,” said the client. “I know a fellow who is a poet—at least he says he is a poet—and he always talks like that.”
“Let me tell you this, sir, not a person on my highly trained staff is a day over twenty-five. That is the truth.”
Since the highly trained staff consisted of Tuppence and Albert, the statement was truth itself.