ead. I wouldn't
like to be the old man's partner. Well, you see, this paint of his is
like his heart's blood. Better not try to joke him about it. I've
seen people come in occasionally and try it. They didn't get much fun
out of it."

While he talked, Walker was plucking up morsels from his plate, tearing
off pieces of French bread from the long loaf, and feeding them into
his mouth in an impersonal way, as if he were firing up an engine.

"I suppose he thinks," suggested Corey, "that if he doesn't tell,
nobody else will."

Walker took a draught of beer from his glass, and wiped the foam from
his moustache.

"Oh, but he carries it too far! It's a weakness with him. He's just so
about everything. Look at the way he keeps it up about that
type-writer girl of his. You'd think she was some princess travelling
incognito. There isn't one of us knows who she is, or where she came
from, or who she belongs to. He brought her and her machine into the
office one morning, and set 'em down at a table, and that's all there
is about it, as far as we're concerned. It's pretty hard on the girl,
for I guess she'd like to talk; and to any one that didn't know the old
man----" Walker broke off and drained his glass of what was left in it.

Corey thought of the words he had overheard from Lapham to the girl.
But he said, "She seems to be kept pretty busy."

"Oh yes," said Walker; "there ain't much loafing round the place, in
any of the departments, from the old man's down. That's just what I
say. He's got to work just twice as hard, if he wants to keep
everything in his own mind. But he ain't afraid of work. That's one
good thing about him. And Miss Dewey has to keep step with the rest of
us. But she don't look like one that would take to it naturally. Such
a pretty girl as that generally thinks she does enough when she looks
her prettiest."

"She's a pretty girl," said Corey, non-committally. "But I suppose a
great many pretty girls have to earn their living."

"Don't any of 'em like to do it," returned the book-keeper. "They
think it's a hardship, and I don't blame 'em. They have got a right to
get married, and they ought to have the chance. And Miss Dewey's
smart, too. She's as bright as a biscuit. I guess she's had trouble.
I shouldn't be much more than half surprised if Miss Dewey wasn't Miss
Dewey, or hadn't always been. Yes, sir," continued the book-keeper,
who prolonged the talk as they walked back t