CHAPTER VIII.
AMONG A STRANGE PEOPLE.
AS the office boy, after inquiry, showed Emily into Marlowe’s office on the third floor of the Democrat building, he was putting on his coat to receive her.
“Good morning,” he said, in a business tone. “You’ll forgive me. I’m in a rush to get away to Saratoga this evening—for the Republican convention. Let’s go to the City Editor at once, if you please.”
They went down a long hall to a door marked “News Room—Morning Edition.” Marlowe held open the door and she found herself in a large room filled with desks, at many of which were men in their shirt sleeves writing. They crossed to a door marked, “City Editor.” Marlowe knocked.
“Come in,” an irritated voice responded, “if you must. But don’t stay long.”
“What a bear,” said Marlowe cheerfully, not lowering his voice. “It’s a lady, Bobbie. So you must sheathe your claws.”
“Bobbie”—or Mr. Stilson—rose, an apology in his strong-featured, melancholy face.
“Pardon me, Miss Bromfield,” he said, when he had got her name. “They’ve been knocking at that door all day long, and coming in and driving me half mad with their nonsense.”
“Excuse me,” said Marlowe, “I must get away. This is the young woman I talked to you about. Don’t mind his manner, Miss Bromfield. He’s a ‘soft one’ in reality, and puts on the burrs to shield himself. Good-bye, good luck.” And he was gone, Emily noted vaguely that his manner toward “Bobbie” was a curious mixture of affection, admiration, and audacity—“like the little dog with the big one,” she thought.
Emily seated herself in a chair with newspapers in it but less occupied in that way than any other horizontal part of the little office. Stilson was apparently examining her with disapproval. But as she looked directly into his eyes, she saw that Marlowe had told the truth. They were beautiful with an expression of manly gentleness. And she detected the same quality in his voice, beneath a surface tone of abruptness.