Entering her room, Malcolm Sage found Gladys Norman lying in a heap beside her typewriter. Picking her up he carried her into his own room, placed her in an arm-chair, fetched some brandy from a small cupboard and, still watched by the wide-eyed William Johnson, proceeded to force a little between her teeth. Presently her lids flickered and, a moment later, she opened her eyes. For a second there was in them a look of uncertainty, then suddenly they opened to their fullest extent and became fixed upon the door beyond. Malcolm Sage glanced over his shoulder and saw framed in the doorway Sir James Walton. "Sit down, Chief," he said quietly, his gaze returning to the girl sitting limply in the large leather-covered arm-chair. "I shall be free in a moment." It was characteristic of him to attempt no explanation. To his mind the situation explained itself. As Miss Norman made an effort to rise, he placed a detaining hand upon her arm. "Send Mr. Thompson." With a motion of his hand Malcolm Sage indicated to William Johnson that the dramatic possibilities of the situation were exhausted, at least as far as he was concerned. With reluctant steps the lad left the room and, having told Thompson he was wanted, returned to his seat in the outer office, where it was his mission to sit in preliminary judgment upon callers. When Thompson entered, Malcolm Sage instructed him to move the leather-covered chair into Miss Norman's room and, when she was rested, to take her home in the car. Thompson's face beamed. His devotion to Gladys Norman was notorious. The girl rose and raised to Malcolm Sage a pair of dark eyes from which tears were not far distant. "I'm so ashamed, Mr. Sage," she began, her lower lip trembling ominously. "I've never done such a thing before." "I've been working you too hard," he said, as he held back the door. "You must go home and rest." She shook her head and passed out, whilst Malcolm Sage returned to his seat at the table. "Working till two o'clock this morning," he remarked as he resumed his seat. "She won't have assistance. Strange creatures, women," he added musingly, "but beautifully loyal." Sir James had dropped into a chair on the opposite side of Malcolm Sage's table. Having selected a cigar from the box his late chief-of-staff pushed across to him, he cut off the end and proceeded to light it. "Good cigars these," he remarked, as he critically examined the lighted end. "They're your own brand, Chief," was the reply. Malcolm Sage always used the old name of "Chief" when addressing Sir James Walton. It seemed to constitute a link with the old days when they had worked together with a harmony that had bewildered those heads of departments who had regarded Malcolm Sage as something between a punishment and a misfortune. "Busy?" "Very." For some seconds they were silent. It was like old times to be seated one on each side of a table, and both seemed to realise the fact.