“If you’re on Dean’s game,” he said, “you’d better clear out. I’m not interested.”

He might not be, but Bredon was. His long nose twitched with curiosity.

“What game? I didn’t know Dean. Never heard of him till I came here. What’s the row?”

“If you didn’t know Dean, why bring him up? He went about with a gang of people I didn’t care about, that’s all, and from the look of you, I should have said you belonged to the same bright crowd.”

“The de Momerie crowd?”

“It’s not much use your pretending you don’t know all about it, is it?” said Willis, with a sneer.

“Ingleby told me Dean was a hanger-on of that particular bunch of Bright Young People,” replied Bredon, mildly. “But I’ve never met any of them. They’d think me terribly ancient. They would, really. Besides, I don’t think they’re nice to know. Some of them are really naughty. Did Mr. Pym know that Dean was a Bright Young Thing?”

“I shouldn’t think so, or he’d have buzzed him out double quick. What business is Dean of yours, anyway?”

“Absolutely none. I just wondered about him, that’s all. He seems to have been a sort of misfit here. Not quite imbued with the Pym spirit, if you see what I mean.”

“No, he wasn’t. And if you take my advice, you’ll leave Dean and his precious friends alone, or you won’t make yourself too popular. The best thing Dean ever did in his life was to fall down that staircase.”

“Nothing in life became him like the leaving it? But it seems a bit harsh, all the same. Somebody must have loved him. ‘For he must be somebody’s son,’ as the dear old song says. Hadn’t he any family? There is a sister, at least, isn’t there?”

“Why the devil do you want to know about his sister?”

“I don’t. I just asked, that’s all. Well, I’d better tootle off, I suppose. I’ve enjoyed this little talk.”

Willis scowled at his retreating form, and Mr. Bredon went away to get his information elsewhere. As usual, the typists’ room was well informed.

“Only the sister,” said Miss Parton. “She’s something to do with Silkanette Hosiery. She and Victor ran a little flat together. Smart as paint, but rather silly, I thought, the only time I saw her. I’ve an idea our Mr. Willis was a bit smitten in that direction at one time, but it didn’t seem to come to anything.”

“Oh, I see,” said Mr. Bredon, much enlightened.

He went back to his own room and the guard-books. But his attention wandered. He paced about, sat down, got up, stared out of the window, came back to the desk. Then, from a drawer, he pulled out a sheet of paper. It bore a list of dates in the previous year, and to each date was appended a letter of the alphabet, thus:

Jan. 7 G

“ 14 O?

“ 21 A

“ 28 P

Feb. 5 G

There were other papers in the desk in the same handwriting-presumably Victor Dean’s-but this list seemed to interest Mr. Bredon unaccountably. He examined it with an attention that one would have thought it scarcely deserved, and finally folded it carefully away in his pocketbook.

“Who dragged whom, how many times, at the wheels of what, round the walls of where?” demanded Mr. Bredon of the world at large. Then he laughed. “Probably some sublime scheme for selling Sopo to sapheads,” he remarked, and this time set himself soberly to work upon his guard-books.

Mr. Pym, the presiding genius of Pym’s Publicity, Ltd., usually allowed a week or so to elapse before interviewing new members of his staff. His theory was that it was useless to lecture people about their work till they had acquired some idea of what the work actually was. He was a conscientious man, and was particularly careful to keep before his mind the necessity for establishing a friendly personal relation with every man, woman and child in his employment, from the heads of departments down to the messenger-boys and, not being gifted with any spontaneous ease and charm of social intercourse, had worked out a rigid formula for dealing with this necessity. At the end of a week or so, he sent for any newly-joined recruits, interrogated them about their work and interests, and delivered his famous sermon on Service in Advertising. If they survived this frightful ordeal, under which nervous young typists had been known to collapse and give notice, they were put on the list for the monthly tea-party. This took place in the Little Conference Room. Twenty persons, selected from all ranks and departments, congregated under Mr. Pym’s official eye to consume the usual office tea, supplemented by ham sandwiches from the canteen, and cake supplied at cost by Dairyfields, Ltd., and entertained one another for an exact hour. This function was supposed to promote inter-departmental cordiality, and by its means the entire staff, including the Outside Publicity, passed under scrutiny once in every six months. In addition to these delights there were, for department and group managers, informal dinners at Mr. Pym’s private residence, where six victims were turned off at a time, the proceedings being hilariously concluded by the formation of two bridge-tables, presided over by Mr. and Mrs. Pym respectively. For the group-secretaries, junior copywriters and junior artists, invitations were issued to an At Home twice a year, with a band and dancing till 10 o’clock; the seniors were expected to attend these and exercise the functions of stewards. For the clerks and typists, there was the Typists’ Garden-Party, with tennis and badminton; and for the office-boys, there was the Office-Boys’ Christmas Treat. In May of every year there was the Grand Annual Dinner and Dance for the whole staff, at which the amount of the staff bonus was announced for the year, and the health of Mr. Pym was drunk amid expressions of enthusiastic loyalty.

In accordance with the first item on this onerous programme, Mr. Bredon was summoned to the Presence within ten days of his first appearance at Pym’s.

“Well, Mr. Bredon,” said Mr. Pym, switching on an automatic smile and switching it off again with nervous abruptness, “and how are you getting on?”

“Oh, pretty well, thank you, sir.”

“Find the work hard?”

“It is a little difficult,” admitted Bredon, “till you get the hang of it, so to speak. A bit bewildering, if you know what I mean.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said Mr. Pym. “Do you get on all right with Mr. Armstrong and Mr. Hankin?”

Mr. Bredon said he found them very kind and helpful.

“They give me very good accounts of you,” said Mr. Pym. “They seem to think you will make a good copy-writer.” He smiled again and Bredon grinned back impudently.

“That’s just as well, under the circumstances, isn’t it?”

Mr. Pym rose suddenly to his feet and threw open the door which separated his room from his secretary’s cubicle.

“Miss Hartley, do you mind going along to Mr. Vickers and asking him to look up the detailed appropriation for Darling’s and let me have it? You might wait and bring it back with you.”

Miss Hartley, realizing that she was to be deprived of hearing Mr. Pym’s discourse on Service in Advertising, which-owing to the thinness of the wooden partition and the resonant quality of Mr. Pym’s voice-was exceedingly familiar to her, rose and departed obediently. This meant that she would be able to have a nice chat with Miss Rossiter and Miss Parton while Mr. Vickers was getting his papers together. And she would not hurry herself, either. Miss Rossiter had hinted that Mr. Willis had hinted all kinds of frightful possibilities about Mr. Bredon, and she wanted to know what was up.

“Now,” said Mr. Pym, passing his tongue rapidly across his lips and seeming to pull himself together to face a disagreeable interview. “What have you got to tell me?”

Mr. Bredon, very much at his ease, leaned across with his elbows on the Managing Director’s desk, and spoke for some considerable time in a low tone, while Mr. Pym’s cheek grew paler and paler.