Whitney lowered his paper and saw a woman about forty years old, a sweet-faced woman with a lovely smile, and faultlessly dressed.
"Good morning, Miss Flinch," she said pleasantly. "Why, no, Mr. Oliver and Katharine came down earlier. Hasn't he come yet? He said he would surely be here by this time. I expected to find him in his office hard at work, or else ready to chide me for being ten minutes later than I promised. I was waiting for Gloria. She was to drive back with the car and get me, but she telephoned that they had a flat tire, and she would meet me here. Hasn't she come yet either?"
"No, Mrs. Oliver. But I guess they'll be here presently," assured the secretary.
"Of course," said the lady. "Well, I'll just step into Mr. Oliver's office and write a note. I was afraid I wouldn't have time to write it at home, but it really ought to go."
The secretary smiled and the lady retreated through the ground glass door of the inner office. The typewriter clicked on.
The clang of the elevator was becoming more frequent now, and there were more and more footsteps going down the marble corridor. Whitney scarcely realized that the hall door had opened again until he heard a woman's clear voice speaking to the secretary.
"Has Mr. Oliver come in yet?"
"No," said the secretary severely.
"How soon do you expect him?"
"Almost any time now," said his keeper ungraciously. "Did you have an appointment?"