The offices of the Ada Clarkson International Employment Bureau (“Promptitude—Courtesy—Intelligence”) are at the top of Shaftesbury Avenue, a little way past the Palace Theatre. Eve, closing the umbrella, which had prevented even a spot of rain falling on her hat, climbed the short stair leading to the door and tapped on the window marked “Enquiries.”
“Can I see Miss Clarkson?”
“What name, please?” responded Enquiries promptly and with intelligent courtesy.
“Miss Halliday.”
Brief interlude, involving business with speaking-tube.
“Will you go into the private office, please,” said Enquiries a moment later, in a voice which now added respect to the other advertised qualities, for she had had time to observe and digest the hat.
Eve passed in through the general waiting-room with its magazine-covered table, and tapped at the door beyond marked “Private.”
“Eve, dear!” exclaimed Miss Clarkson the moment she had entered, “I don’t know how to tell you, but I have been looking through my books and I have nothing, simply nothing. There is not a single place that you could possibly take. What is to be done?”
“That’s all right, Clarkie.”
“But . . .”