As the door closed behind Mr. Golden, Roger's stenographer turned sympathetically around. "You shouldn't have let him get away with that," she said. "What's in there? Clothes?" "No," answered Roger absently. "Just all my wife's shoes." He slept in the office that night on a sofa beside his desk. At dawn he awoke with a nervous start, rushed out into the street for coffee, and returned in ten minutes in a panic--afraid that he might have missed Mr. Garrod's telephone call. It was then 6.30. By eight o'clock his whole body seemed to be on fire. When his two artists arrived he was stretched on the couch in almost physical pain. The phone rang imperatively at 9.30, and he picked up the receiver with trembling hands. "Hello." "Is this the Halsey agency?" "Yes, this is Mr. Halsey speaking." "This is Mr. H. G. Garrod." Roger's heart stopped beating. "I called up, young fellow, to say that this is wonderful work you've given us here. We want all of it and as much more as your office can do." "Oh, God!" cried Roger into the transmitter. "What?" Mr. H. G. Garrod was considerably startled. "Say, wait a minute there!" But he was talking to nobody. The phone had clattered to the floor, and Roger, stretched full length on the couch, was sobbing as if his heart would break. IV Three hours later, his face somewhat pale, but his eyes calm as a child's, Roger opened the door of his wife's bedroom with the morning paper under his arm. At the sound of his footsteps she started awake. "What time is it?" she demanded. He looked at his watch. "Twelve o'clock." Suddenly she began to cry. "Roger," she said brokenly, "I'm sorry I was so bad last night." He nodded coolly. "Everything's all right now," he answered. Then, after a pause: "I've got the account--the biggest one." She turned toward him quickly. "You have?" Then, after a minute's silence: "Can I get a new dress?" "Dress?" He laughed shortly. "You can get a dozen. This account alone will bring us in forty thousand a year. It's one of the biggest in the West." She looked at him, startled. "Forty thousand a year!" "Yes." "Gosh"--and then faintly--"I didn't know it'd really be anything like that." Again she thought a minute. "We can have a house like George Tompkins'." "I don't want an interior-decoration shop." "Forty thousand a year!" she repeated again, and then added softly: "Oh, Roger----" "Yes?" "I'm not going out with George Tompkins." "I wouldn't let you, even if you wanted to," he said shortly. She made a show of indignation. "Why, I've had a date with him for this Thursday for weeks." "It isn't Thursday." "It is." "It's Friday." "Why, Roger, you must be crazy! Don't you think I know what day it is?" "It isn't Thursday," he said stubbornly. "Look!" And he held out the morning paper. "Friday!" she exclaimed. "Why, this is a mistake! This must be last week's paper. To-day's Thursday." She closed her eyes and thought for a moment.