"Dead sorry, Dad. Didn't know it was so late," said the new-comer, blithely. "How long before you are going home?" "Ten minutes. I've got to go over to the new building first. Don't go until I return. There's something I want to see you about." Nance heard the door close as Mr. Clarke went out; then she waited in a tremor, half trepidation, half glee, for Mac to recognize her. He was moving about restlessly, first in one office, then in the other, and she could feel his bright inquisitive eyes upon her from different angles. But she kept her face averted, changing her position as he changed his. Presently he came to a halt near her and began softly to whistle the little-bear dance from the "Rag-Time Follies." She smiled before she knew it, and the next instant he was perched on the corner of her desk, demanding rapturously to know what she was doing there, and swearing that he had recognized her the moment he entered the room. "Let go my hand, Mr. Mac!" she implored in laughing confusion. "I'm afraid to! You might give me the slip again. I've been scouring the town for you and to think I should find you here!" "Look out!" warned Nance. "You're upsetting the ink-bottle!" "What do I care? Gee, this is luck! You ought to see my new racer, a regular peach! Will you come out with me sometime?" "Will you let me run it?" "I'll let you do anything you like with anything I've got," he declared with such ardor that she laughed and regretted it the next moment. "Now look here, Mr. Mac!" she said, severely, "you touch me again, and I quit to-night. See?" "I'll be good. I'll do anything you say if you'll just stay and play with me." "Play nothing! I've got work to do." "Work be hanged! Do you suppose when I haven't seen you for four months that I'm not going to claim my inning?" "Well, I want to tell you right here," she said, shaking a warning pencil in his face, "that I mean what I say about your behaving yourself." Mac caught the end of the pencil and held it while their eyes challenged each other. "So be it!" he said. "I promise to be a model of discretion. Nance, I've been mad about you! Did Monte tell you--" "Mr. Monte didn't tell me anything I wanted to hear," she said in her cool, keen way, as she got the imperiled ink-well to a place of safety, and straightened the other articles on the desk. "You wouldn't be so down on a fellow if you knew how hard hit I am," persisted Mac. "Besides, I'm in for an awful row with the governor. You may see my scalp fly past the window in less than ten minutes." "What's the row about?" "Same old thing. I am the original devil for getting found out." For the space of a minute he gloomily contemplated a spot in the carpet; then he shrugged his shoulders, rammed his hands in his pockets, and began to whistle. "The governor'll fork out," he said. "He always does. Say, Nance, you haven't said a word about my moustache."