Druce turned quickly and saw Miss Masters coming from the inner office. He was impressed by the attractiveness of her dress.
“Where does she get all the glad rags?” he demanded of himself. “Maybe old Boland—”
“Who’s a little fool?” persisted Miss Masters.
“Nobody,” returned Druce. “Just talking to myself. Mr. Boland’s out or busy, I suppose?”
“Yes, Mr. Boland’s out,” replied Miss Masters. She sat down at a typewriter and inserted a sheet of paper in the machine. “He left a message for you, however. He told me this morning that if you called I should ask you to ’phone him about twelve o’clock. He’ll try to see you then for a moment.”
“All right,” said Druce, “thanks.” But he made no move to go. He watched the girl as she hammered the typewriter keys. Presently she looked up at him inquiringly.
This to Druce appeared to be a direct offer to open a conversation. He hastened to take advantage of it.
“Yes,” he replied in his most ingratiating manner, drawing near her. “I want to talk to you. I have been dying to speak to you alone, girlie—”
The girl rose from her chair and picked up her notebook.
“Oh, Mr. Druce,” she said.