As in the histories of both men and nations, these first
steps in great developments began quietly enough. For one thing, Furneaux
returned to the village. For another, the London telegraphist, who
expected the day to prove practically a blank, was reading a newspaper
when the telegraph instrument clicked the local call.
Doris was checking and distributing the stock of stamps which had arrived
that morning; her father was counting mail-bags in a small annex to the
main room, the Knoleworth office having acquired a habit of making up
shortages by docking the country branches. No member of the public
happened to be present. The girl could have heard what the Morse code was
tapping forth had she chosen, but she had trained herself to disregard
the telegraph when occupied on other work.
Suddenly, however, the telegraphist's pencil paused.
"Hello!" he said. "Theodore Siddle! That's the chemist opposite,
isn't it!"
"Yes," said Doris, suspending her calculations at mention of the name.
"Well, his mother's dead."
"Dead?" she echoed vacantly. Somehow, it had never hitherto dawned on her
that the chemist might possess relatives in some part of the country.
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