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 to-day. 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.

"Oh, yes," he answered; "but tell him to keep strictly to old Cal's
lines--rub that into him. If he were to get drunk and run in some of his
own tips it'd be awkward. People are expecting Cal's stuff. Tell you
what: you take him out to lunch, eh? Keep an eye on the supplies, and
ram it into him that he's got to stick to Cal's line of argument."