And the candidate for mayor walked away, wondering how he could have offended Conlon, and rejoiced that he had "fixed" him in time.
"Where's the telegram?" he asked, as he entered his private office. "Why, Stevens might have attended to this. Where's Mr. Stevens? Miss Strong, send Mr. Stevens in!"
"Mr. Stevens!" gasped Miss Strong. "Mr. Stevens—why——"
"Oh, I mean where does he live now? I heard he was moving. And by sending him in, I mean, if you happen to meet him," hastily amended Mr. Brassfield, noting some error. "I want to see him. And show me his account, please; and kindly ring for a boy to take this message."
The books showed the discharge of Mr. Stevens, and the closing of his account. Brassfield frowned over it, but resumed his smile at Miss Strong's re-entrance.
"Let's see," said he. "What have we for this afternoon? These unanswered—Why, Miss Strong, these must be attended to at once! Please take some letters for me."
He had dropped into his rut. For an hour or more Miss Strong's fingers flew as she noted down his dictation, and at the end of that time the letters were answered, and the communications which had so perplexed Amidon were filed away among other things done. The office force breathed freely once more, with the freedom of returning efficiency in management.
The man who had brought this relief to his employees now looked at his watch, rose, went out, and walking briskly down the main street, nodding to an acquaintance here, and speaking to another there, made his way out among the homes of the town.
Here his brisk walk gradually slowed down to a saunter. He was strolling toward the house with the white columns. Suddenly coming into view, as she turned a corner and walked on before him, appeared a young lady. Not much ability in the detective line would be necessary for the recognition of her by any of this girl's acquaintances, within any ordinary range of vision. If there were no certain revelation in the short, smartly-attired, quick-moving figure, there could be no mistake concerning the vividly brilliant hair, which glowed under the saucily-turned fabric of felt, feathers and velvet which crowned it, like a brilliant cloud display over a red sunset. Mr. Brassfield seemed to recognize her, for he quickened his pace so as to overtake her before she could come to a gateway, into which her glance and movements indicated that she was about to turn. He walked up by her side, and manifested to her his presence by falling into step and lightly pinching her shapely elbow.
"How-de-do, Daisy-daise!" said he, with the utmost assurance. "When did you bring the town the blessing of your presence?"