The secretary, who patently tried to look as much like his master as possible, and succeeded, entered, a sheaf of open letters in his hand, and noiselessly closed the door behind him.
"Good-morning," said his master. His voice was quite low; it was thin and cool, but his words fell quickly.
"Good-morning," said the secretary.
"What's in the mail?"
"Not much, sir. Only about twenty things that need your personal attention."
"About twenty!" The master's words seemed to leap from him and assault the secretary, but his face was set like a plaster-cast of calm and his tone was even. "Do you mean nineteen or twenty-one?"
The secretary was too used to this manner of speech to be alarmed by it.
"Twenty-two," he said. He handed the letters to his master.
That one ran them over with a quick hand and a quicker eye. In terse, sharp sentences, he directed his secretary how to reply to them, the latter taking rapid stenographic notes of the commands.
"You have turned the begging communications over to Simpson to investigate?" the employer inquired.