troubles. Well, I've got
embarrassments of my own, with that true sport his papa sending me an
offer of a hundred per month to work for him. One hundred dollars a
month in advance! This, Mr. Harwood, is private and confidential. I
guess I haven't worked at the State House without learning a few tricks
in this mortal vale of politics."

She had calculated nicely the effect of this shot. Harwood might treat
her, as she said, like a step-child with a harelip, but occasionally she
made him sit up. He sat up now. He remarked with the diplomatic
unconcern that it was best to employ with her:--

"Refused the offer, did you, Miss Farrell?"

"I certainly did. As between a fat old sport like Ed Thatcher and a
gentleman like Mr. Bassett, money doesn't count--not even with a
p.w.g., or poor working girl, like me. Hush!--are we quite alone?" She
bent toward the door dramatically. "What he was playing for, as neat as
a hatpin in your loved one's eye, was some facts about the boss's
committee work in that last session I worked at the State House. Cute of
Thatcher? Well, not so awful bright! He doesn't know what he's up
against if he thinks Mort Bassett can be caught on flypaper, and you can
be dead sure I'm not going to sprinkle the sugar to catch our boss with.
All that Transportation Committee business was just as straight as the
way home; but"--Miss Farrell tapped her mouth daintily with her fingers
to stifle an imaginary yawn--"but little Rose brought down her shorthand
notebooks marked 'M.B. personal,' and the boss and I burned them
yesterday morning early, right there in that grate in his room. That's
what I think of Mr. Ed Thatcher. A pearl necklace for my birthday ought
to be about right for that."

Harwood had been drinking this in as he opened and sorted his letters.
He paused and stared at her absently.

"You referred to a caller a moment ago--the gentleman who annoyed you so
much on the telephone. Was I to call him or anything like that?"

"He left a good many orders, but I think you were to eat food with him
in the frosty halls of the University Club almost at once. He's in a
state of mind. In love with the daughter of his father's enemy--just
like a Park Theatre thriller. Wants you to tell him what to do; and you
will pardon me for suggesting that if there's to be an elopement you
write it up yourself for the 'Courier.' I was talking to a friend of
mine who's on the ding-ding desk at the Whitcomb and she says the