with Mr. Tremayne. In charge of the newspaper side of things, Tremayne was a rubicund, cheery soul, able to handle almost any crisis with ease. Not today. He was at the front doors of the building when Harry came in, and the look on his face indicated something was very wrong.
“God, Tremayne, what’s happened? You look the picture of misery.”
“I don’t have Miss Dove’s operations schedule for today.”
“She didn’t send it down yet?” Harry asked in some surprise as he crossed the foyer, passedthe newsrooms where clerks were busily typing away, and started up the stairs.
The other man followed him. “Miss Dove is not here.”
“What?” Harry paused with one foot on the stair and pulled out his watch. “That’s impossible. It’s half-past ten. Miss Dove’s about somewhere. She has to be.”
“Mr. Marsden—he sits at the front desk, sir, you know…” Tremayne paused to indicate Marsden’s desk at the other end of the foyer by the front doors. “He says Miss Dove has not arrived yet today.”
“He probably missed her coming in, that’s all.” Unworried, Harry tucked his watch back into his waistcoat pocket and resumed walking up the stairs.
“Yes, sir,” Tremayne replied, as he followed Harry up to the third floor. “I thought so as well. I sent my clerk to investigate, but when Carter went upstairs, he observed that Miss Dove’s bonnet and umbrella were not on the coat-tree by your office doors. We conducted a search, and she is nowhere within the building. Perhaps she is ill.”
“Miss Dove is never ill. That’s a scientific fact, Tremayne, much like gravity and sunrises.”
“She’s never late, either, sir. Yet she is not here, and I do not have a schedule.”
The two men entered Harry’s office suite and paused beside Miss Dove’s desk. Harry observed that the desktop was devoid of anything savethe inkstand and blotter which sat precisely in the center of the polished oak surface. Her typewriting machine was still cloaked in its leather cover. The hat rack was empty.
“You see, my lord?” Tremayne spread his arms wide. “It doesn’t look as if she’s been here at all.”
“Well, have Marsden ring her up and find out why she isn’t in.”
“I don’t believe Miss Dove has a telephone,” the other man said doubtfully. “If she does, Marsden wouldn’t know what number to give the exchange.” He paused, then gave a cough. “Sir, what shall we do? I have to have that schedule.”
Before Harry could address the problem, the door opened and Mr. Finch, in charge of the book division, entered the room. “My lord, Mr. Tremayne,” he greeted the other two men, then glanced at the desk behind them. “Miss Dove on an errand?”
“My secretary is not here yet this morning, Mr. Finch,” Harry told him.
The other man looked surprised, a feeling Harry understood quite well at this moment. “My lord, Miss Dove is always here first thing.”
“Not today, it seems. I suppose you need something as well?”
“Yes, sir. I’m in need of the book schedule for next year. Miss Dove brings it up to date every month. She’s so good at making certain the authors meet their deadlines, you know.”
“Do you really need—”
The door opened, interrupting Harry’s question, and Mr. Marsden came in. “There is a clerk from Ledbetter & Ghent downstairs, my lord. He says he is here to pick up some signed contracts?”
“Hell!” Harry cast another look at his secretary’s desk, but there were no papers lying about. Miss Dove was supposed to have read those contracts over the weekend and have them ready for his signature this morning. “Wait here,” he told the other men and went into his office. Sure enough, the contracts were there, sitting in a neat pile in the center of his desk. An envelope, addressed to him in Miss Dove’s handwriting, lay atop them.
Relieved to find those crucial contracts, Harry shoved the envelope aside and flipped through the pages of the
“God, Tremayne, what’s happened? You look the picture of misery.”
“I don’t have Miss Dove’s operations schedule for today.”
“She didn’t send it down yet?” Harry asked in some surprise as he crossed the foyer, passedthe newsrooms where clerks were busily typing away, and started up the stairs.
The other man followed him. “Miss Dove is not here.”
“What?” Harry paused with one foot on the stair and pulled out his watch. “That’s impossible. It’s half-past ten. Miss Dove’s about somewhere. She has to be.”
“Mr. Marsden—he sits at the front desk, sir, you know…” Tremayne paused to indicate Marsden’s desk at the other end of the foyer by the front doors. “He says Miss Dove has not arrived yet today.”
“He probably missed her coming in, that’s all.” Unworried, Harry tucked his watch back into his waistcoat pocket and resumed walking up the stairs.
“Yes, sir,” Tremayne replied, as he followed Harry up to the third floor. “I thought so as well. I sent my clerk to investigate, but when Carter went upstairs, he observed that Miss Dove’s bonnet and umbrella were not on the coat-tree by your office doors. We conducted a search, and she is nowhere within the building. Perhaps she is ill.”
“Miss Dove is never ill. That’s a scientific fact, Tremayne, much like gravity and sunrises.”
“She’s never late, either, sir. Yet she is not here, and I do not have a schedule.”
The two men entered Harry’s office suite and paused beside Miss Dove’s desk. Harry observed that the desktop was devoid of anything savethe inkstand and blotter which sat precisely in the center of the polished oak surface. Her typewriting machine was still cloaked in its leather cover. The hat rack was empty.
“You see, my lord?” Tremayne spread his arms wide. “It doesn’t look as if she’s been here at all.”
“Well, have Marsden ring her up and find out why she isn’t in.”
“I don’t believe Miss Dove has a telephone,” the other man said doubtfully. “If she does, Marsden wouldn’t know what number to give the exchange.” He paused, then gave a cough. “Sir, what shall we do? I have to have that schedule.”
Before Harry could address the problem, the door opened and Mr. Finch, in charge of the book division, entered the room. “My lord, Mr. Tremayne,” he greeted the other two men, then glanced at the desk behind them. “Miss Dove on an errand?”
“My secretary is not here yet this morning, Mr. Finch,” Harry told him.
The other man looked surprised, a feeling Harry understood quite well at this moment. “My lord, Miss Dove is always here first thing.”
“Not today, it seems. I suppose you need something as well?”
“Yes, sir. I’m in need of the book schedule for next year. Miss Dove brings it up to date every month. She’s so good at making certain the authors meet their deadlines, you know.”
“Do you really need—”
The door opened, interrupting Harry’s question, and Mr. Marsden came in. “There is a clerk from Ledbetter & Ghent downstairs, my lord. He says he is here to pick up some signed contracts?”
“Hell!” Harry cast another look at his secretary’s desk, but there were no papers lying about. Miss Dove was supposed to have read those contracts over the weekend and have them ready for his signature this morning. “Wait here,” he told the other men and went into his office. Sure enough, the contracts were there, sitting in a neat pile in the center of his desk. An envelope, addressed to him in Miss Dove’s handwriting, lay atop them.
Relieved to find those crucial contracts, Harry shoved the envelope aside and flipped through the pages of the
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