All the clerks returned discreetly to their work, typewriters clicking merrily, as the family filed down through the offices and into Mr. Akerson’s private room. He faced them all until he met the clear eyes of Mrs. White, then he shifted uneasily and requested Bob, who came in last, to close the door.
“What’s it all about, Dorothy?” asked Bob in clear, cool tones, as he looked with rather a contemptuous glance at the agent. “Has someone been annoying you?” and he seemed to swell up his splendid muscles under his coat-sleeves—muscles that had been hardened by a healthy, active out-of-door life in camp.
“If there has,” continued Bob, as he looked for a place in the paper-littered office to place his hat, “if there has, I’d just like to have a little talk with them—outside,” and the lad nodded significantly toward the hall.
“Oh, Bob!” began Dorothy. “You mustn’t—that is—Oh, I’m sure it’s all a mistake,” she said, hastily.
“That’s more like it,” said Mr. Akerson, and he seemed to smile in relief. Somehow he looked rather apprehensively at Bob, Tavia thought. She, herself, was admiring the lad’s manliness.
“But you telephoned,” Bob continued. “We were quite alarmed over it. You said——”
“Young ladies aren’t always responsible for what they say over the ’phone,” put in Mr. Akerson, with what he meant to be a genial smile at Bob. “I fancy—er—we men of the world realize that. If Miss Dale has any complaint to make——” he paused suggestively.
“Oh, I don’t know what to do!” cried Dorothy. “There certainly seems to be some need of a complaint, and yet——”
“Doro, dear, have you been trying to straighten out my business for me?” demanded Mrs. White, with a gracious smile.
“Aunt Winne—I don’t exactly know. Tavia here, she——”