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Ingleby uttered a loud yell, and Bredon, laying down the index-card, gazed at him open-mouthed.
“Damn and blast Nutrax,” said Ingleby. “May all its directors get elephantiasis, locomotor ataxy and ingrowing toe-nails!”
“Oh, quite,” said Tallboy. “You'll let us have something, won't you? If I can get it passed before 3 o'clock the printer—Hullo!”
Mr. Tallboy's eye, roving negligently round, had fallen on Bredon's index-card. Miss Rossiter's glance followed his. Neatly printed on the card stood the one word
DEATH
“Look at that!” said Miss Rossiter.
“Oh!” said Ingleby, looking over her shoulder. “That's who you are, is it, Bredon? Well, all I can say is, your stuff ought to come home to everybody. Universal appeal, and so forth.”
Mr. Bredon smiled apologetically.
“You startled me so,” he said. “Pooping off that howl in my ear.” He took up the card and finished his inscription:
DEATH BREDON
,
12A, Great Ormond Street,
W.C.1
CHAPTER II
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