CHAPTER FOUR
Gamadge AssistsSanderson came into the room like a man who has been in a hurry for so long that he cannot stop when the rush is over. The loosely hung door banged and rattled shut behind him; he crossed the room in two strides, flung himself into the chair from which Gamadge had risen, pulled out a wilting handkerchief, and dabbed his hot face with it. Gamadge retreated to the broad window ledge, where he sat in silence. Formal condolences would have been out of place; they might come later, when the young man had regained his breath and his balance. Mitchell also waited, placidly rocking.
“Hot over there at the Centre.” Sanderson at last put away the handkerchief, and ran a hand over his light hair.
“Have a drink of water, Mr. Sanderson,” suggested Mitchell. “You look just
