Jill turned pink. Mr. Brown, her guide and mentor, foreseeing this situation, had, she remembered, recommended "pushing the office-boy in the face": and for a moment she felt like following his advice. Prudence, or the fact that he was out of reach behind the brass bars, restrained her. Without further delay she made for the door of the inner room. That was her objective, and she did not intend to be diverted from it. Her fingers were on the handle before any of those present divined her intention. Then the stenographer stopped typing and sat with raised fingers, aghast. The girl at the telephone broke off in mid-sentence and stared round over her shoulder. Ralph, the office-boy, outraged, dropped his paper and constituted himself the spokesman of the invaded force.
"Hey!"
Jill stopped and eyed the lad militantly.
"Were you speaking to me?"
"Yes, I was speaking to you!"
"Don't do it again with your mouth full," said Jill, turning to the door.
The belligerent fire in the office-boy's pink-rimmed eyes was suddenly dimmed by a gush of water. It was not remorse that caused him to weep, however. In the heat of the moment he had swallowed a large, jagged sweet, and he was suffering severely.
"You can't go in there!" he managed to articulate, his iron will triumphing over the flesh sufficiently to enable him to speak.
"I am going in there!"
"That's Mr. Goble's private room."