“Why, yes,” he said, “I don't know but what that could be arranged. I will speak to Murray of the New York store. He is employing hundreds of people all the time, and I know he has difficulty in getting good ones.”
He finished with a wave of dismissal and turned back to his letter. But the woman waited.
“You will see him to-day?” she asked.
“Why, yes”—rather impatiently—“I will try to see him this noon.”
“And shall I come back this afternoon?”
Mr. Bigelow leaned back again.
“No, I hardly think that will be necessary. Let me see———”
“I don't see how I am to know if I don't come back—unless you write to me.”
He hesitated at this and, thanks to his hesitation, received a keen stroke below his armour.
“If it is the writing,” she said, with quiet, bitter scorn, “you know I have letters enough now.” Yes, she had, and he knew it: there had been blue moments in his life when he would have given a great deal to get those letters back—letters relating to money matters, most of them; explanations why certain sums were still unpaid, perhaps; letters sent back into another life, a life which had gone under Mr. Bigelow's feet as he mounted to higher things. And she added: “You needn't sign your name, if you'd rather not.”