The discerning reader will spot the glittering falchion of malice lurking in the initial letters. Read them downward, they convey: o my how I hate you! Lester had but to convey this poisoned comfit to his chief: then, playing upon the artless Pearl, persuade her to show it to him—point out the murderous duplicity of the love token; and she would recoil into his arms. Greenwich Village would sound the timbrel of joy, and even the Oblique might find a softer-hearted papyrus vendor. Vos plaudite! With such thoughts, amid the wailing matin song of boarding-house steam pipes, our hero fell into a brief slumber.
That morning Lester hastened to the office. He waited feverishly until the hour when the chief usually arrived, then visited the private office. There he found the vice-president going over the morning mail. “Is—is Mr. Arundel in?” he stammered.
“Mr. Arundel isn't here to-day,” said the vicepresident. “He will be away two weeks.”
Lester retired queasily, and hurried to the corner sacred to Miss Denver. Here he found one of the other stenographers using Pearl's machine.
“Where's Miss Denver?” he asked.
The young lady, of humorous turn, looked at her wrist watch. “Getting ready to go over the top,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Haven't you heard? She marries the boss this morning.”