“If you are thinking of helping the club along with a contribution, why, do it. You’ll make no mistake. It’s the real goods.”
“Quite an idea,” mused Kenyon, after the policeman had gone. “By George, it’s the very thing for me!”
He had been standing upon the opposite side; so now he crossed the street and entered the building. A group of girls were in the hall, muffling themselves up, for the night was cold for the time of year. At sight of the tall, elegantly attired young man, they set up a subdued whispering and giggling.
“I am inclined to suspect that male visitors are not very common, here,” thought Kenyon, with a good-humored smile.
One of them, a dark-skinned, black-eyed girl, who plainly showed her Neapolitan blood, approached him.
“Did you want to see anyone, please?” she asked.
“The secretary, Miss Gilbert,” answered he.
“You’ll find her in the office,” directed the black-eyed girl, pointing to an open door across the hall. “Walk right in.”
“Thank you.” He entered at the door indicated and found himself in an apartment lighted only by a shaded cluster of bulbs which hung low over a big desk in the centre of the floor. The shade threw the light downward upon a girl whose beautifully posed head and great mass of dark hair immediately told him who she was. She was bent over the desk, writing; and without looking up, she asked:
“What is it, please?”