Before Niall could even open his mouth, someone else opened his door. Abruptly, and with little regard for manners or courtesy, a small, round bon-bon of a man burst through the entrance, his breath nothing more than ragged gasps for air. His frame was not built nearly well enough for so much as a brisk walk, and yet he had just sprinted a quarter-mile.
“Niall!” the man spurted, “I just received word! It’s awful! Truly awful!”
The rotund little man had grasped the attention of the intrigued Mr Cavendish like a freshly unwrapped caramel does the attention of a portly child. Niall was silently signalling to his associate that he should cease any and all conversations of this nature around this particular individual. His efforts were, unfortunately, unsuccessful.
“It’s truly, truly awful, Niall!” he continued to bellow. “They’ve done it! They’ve done the impossible!”
“Who? What?” Niall asked, suddenly concerned.
“They have!” he repeated. “They’ve discovered the ninth candy!”
“Flaming hecate!”
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