“I expected to find Mr. Hartson,” explained Galbraithe.
“Guess you’re in the wrong office,” the stranger shut him off abruptly.
For a moment Galbraithe believed this was possible, but every scarred bit of furniture was in its place and the dusty clutter of papers in the corner had not been disturbed. The new city editor glanced suspiciously toward Galbraithe’s dress-suit case and reached forward as though to press a button. With flushed cheeks Galbraithe retreated, and hurried down the corridor toward the reportorial rooms. He must find Billy Bertram and get the latter to square him with the new city editor. He made at once for Billy Bertram’s desk, with hand extended. Just beyond was the desk he himself had occupied for five years. Bertram looked up—and then Galbraithe saw that it wasn’t Bertram at all.
“What can I do for you, old man?” inquired the stranger. He was a man of about Bertram’s age, and a good deal of Bertram’s stamp.
“I was looking for Billy Bertram,” stammered Galbraithe. “Guess he must have shifted his desk.”
He glanced hopefully at the other desks in the room, but he didn’t recognize a face.
“Bertram?” inquired the man who occupied Bertram’s desk. He turned to the man next to him.
“Say, Green, any one here by the name of Bertram?”
Green lighted a fresh cigarette, and shook his head.
“Never heard of him,” he replied indifferently.
“He used to sit here,” explained Galbraithe.
“I’ve held down this chair for fifteen months, and before me a chump by the name of Watson had that honor. Can’t go back any farther than that.”
Galbraithe put down his suit case, and wiped his forehead. Every one in the room took a suspicious glance at the bag.
“Ever hear of Sanderson?” Galbraithe inquired of Green.
“Ever hear of Wadlin or Jerry Donahue or Cartwright?”
“Sit down, old man,” he suggested. “You’ll feel better in a minute.”
“Ever hear of Hartson? Ever hear of old Jim Hartson?”
“That’s all right,” Green encouraged him. “If you have a line in that bag you think will interest us, bring it out. It’s against office rules, but—”
Galbraithe tried to recall if, on his way downtown, he had inadvertently stopped anywhere for a cocktail. He had no recollection of so doing. Perhaps he was a victim of a mental lapse—one of those freak blank spaces of which the alienists were talking so much lately. He made one more attempt to place himself. In his day he had been one of the star reporters of the staff.