"Consult experts, then. I do not like your manager's tone; he is too assuming. Now let me see those papers."
Emily's parasol slipped to the floor with a sharp crash as she stood up, quite pale and shaken.
"Uncle, Mr. Lestrange knows," she appealed. "You heard him say what would happen—please, please let it be fixed."
Amazed, Mr. Ffrench looked at her, his face setting.
"You forget your dignity," he retorted in displeasure. "This is mere childishness, Emily. Men will be consulted more competent to decide than this Lestrange. That will do."
From one to the other she gazed, then turned away.
"I will wait out in the cart," she said. "I—I would rather be outdoors."
Dick Ffrench was up-stairs, standing with Lestrange in one of the narrow aisles between lines of grimly efficient machines that bit or cut their way through the steel and aluminum fed to them, when Rupert came to him with a folded visiting card.
"Miss Ffrench sent it," was the explanation. "She's sitting out in her horse-motor car, and she called me off the track to ask me to demean myself by acting like a messenger boy. All right?"
"All right," said Dick, running an astonished eye over the card.