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|WITH a sudden sharp snort which, violent though it was, expressed only feebly the disgust and indignation seething within him, Sir George Pyke laid down the current number of Society Spice and took up the desk-telephone.
" Give me Spice office," he said curtly.
There was a brief interval.
" Roderick ? "
" He has not yet returned from lunch, Sir George," said an obsequious voice,
"Ah, is that you, Pilbeam ? " Sir George's expression softened. Pilbeam was one of his favourites. A youth with a future. A man he had his eye on. " Kindly tell Mr. Roderick when he comes in that I wish to see him."
"Very good, Sir George."
The founder and proprietor of the Mammoth Publishing Company, that vast concern which supplies half — the more fat-headed half — of England with its reading-matter, hung up the receiver : and after a few moments of frowning thought seized a pencil and began to write. The occupation effected in his appearance a striking change for the better. His brow grew smooth : his eyes ceased to glitter : something resembling a smile relaxed the drawn tensity of his lips. He bent over his pad, absorbed.
One of the things that makes the lot of the reader of a story such as this so enjoyable is the fact that, in addition.