“But I’ve got a great idea—got it when I saw you. It’s one of the greatest ideas I’ve ever had, miss. Are you a typewriter?”
“A typist?” she smiled. “No, I can type, but I’m not a very good typist.”
His voice sank until it was almost unintelligible.
“You come up to my office one day, and we’ll have a great joke. Wouldn’t think I was a joker, would you? Eighty-seven I am, miss. You come up to my office and I’ll make you laugh!”
Suddenly he became more serious.
“They’ll get me—I know it. I haven’t told Matilda, because she’d start screaming. But I know. And the baby!”
This seemed to afford the saturnine old man the greatest possible enjoyment. He rocked from side to side with mirth, until a fit of coughing attacked him.
“That’s all, miss. You come up to my office. Old Johnson isn’t there. You come up and see me. Never had a letter from me, have you?” he suddenly asked, as he rose.
“No, Mr. Maitland,” she said in surprise.
“There was one wrote,” said he. “Maybe I didn’t post it. Maybe I thought better. I dunno.”