“You see,” she went on, “I simply _must_ get work. So of course I came here first, I felt so sure you’d help me if you could.” “Yes—yes; of course. Now, let me see—let me see. You say you’re good at figures?” “Yes, sir.” “Well, suppose you try adding up these columns.” Mr. Irving took down a book of accounts, and opened it at random. “Here now, here now,” he said, “don’t put your figures on the page; they may be wrong. Add these columns on a separate sheet of paper—so—and let me think what I can do for you.” Dorothy took the pad of paper and the pencil he gave her, and going to a seat at a side-table, she began to add. So excited was she over the way the plan was working, she could scarcely see the figures at all, but she added away industriously, now and then peeping at Mr. Irving. He was intently studying the note, and occasionally he would look off into space, as if trying to recall Mr. Roger Arundel! In a few moments the door opened, and the office boy said: “A lady to see you, sir.” “What name?” said Mr. Irving. “Here it is, sir; she just wrote it on this paper.” Mr. Irving took the paper from the boy, and read on it, “Miss Frances Arundel.” He gave a start and glanced at Dorothy. She was looking at him with horror-stricken face, and just then Jeanette came in at the door, closing it behind her, and leaving the office boy outside. Jeanette looked quietly at Mr. Irving, and said: “Did you get my letter?” “I got a letter from Frances Arundel, yes,” said the old gentleman, who was fast getting bewildered. “I wrote it,” said Jeanette, calmly. “I hope you can give me some work to do.” “You wrote it!” said Mr. Irving. “Then who is that lady there?” Jeanette turned a casual glance at Dorothy. “I don’t understand you, sir,” she said; “are you asking me who that lady is? Isn’t she your secretary or something?” “She says she’s Frances Arundel,” said Mr. Irving, grimly. “What!” cried Jeanette; “what nonsense! _I_ am Frances Arundel. I wrote that letter you hold in your hand, and I have called to see if you can give me a position.” “You wrote this letter?” “Of course I did. I also wrote on the paper which I just gave to your office boy. If you will compare the two, you’ll find them the same penmanship.” This seemed sensible enough, and Mr. Irving looked at both papers, and as Jeanette had written the letter, a glance was sufficient to show that they were indeed by the same hand. “What does this mean?” said Mr. Irving, looking sternly at Dorothy. “Forgive me,” pleaded the little rogue, looking very sad and remorseful; “I oughtn’t to have done it, I know, but I overheard this lady in the street-car saying she was coming to see you to-day, to ask you for a position, so I thought I’d come ahead of her, and—and—maybe I could get it. I need it more than she does.” Dorothy cast a beseeching glance at Jeanette, who returned it with a haughty look.