"But you will, won't you?"
"All right. Use that machine over there. Hum—hum!"
For twenty minutes the girl was busy typing before the copy was finally ready. Then, comparing it and finding her copy accurate, she returned the original to Mr. Vaux, and rose with that disturbing grace peculiar to her every movement.
"Where may I telephone you when you're not here?" she inquired diffidently, resting one slim, white hand on his desk.
"At the Racquet Club. Are you going out?"
"Yes."
"What! You abandon me without my permission?"
She nodded with one of those winsome smiles which incline young men to revery. Then she turned and walked toward the cloak room.
The D. C. was deeply in love with somebody else, yet he found it hard to concentrate his mind for a while, and he chewed his unlighted cigar into a pulp. Alas! Men are that way. Not sometimes. Always.
Finally he shoved aside the pile of letters which he had been trying to read, unhooked the telephone receiver, called a number, got it, and inquired for a gentleman named Cassidy.