“Honorable fiddlesticks!” said Bert, staring straight at the gentleman. “Look out for him, Dollie; I don’t like his style. He’s too smooth to be real healthy, and you know I must protect you, if you are going to be my sister.” CHAPTER III. MARION ARRIVES JUST IN TIME. At exactly noon the day after Bert Jackson’s warning, Miss Dixon sat alone in the private office. She had been taking dictation all the morning, and was a trifle weary. “It is very strange,” she said to herself. “Mr. Atherton is not in the habit of taking his typewriter to lunch with him, and I have been here two years and never received an invitation.” Bob Day, the office boy, came in with some papers. There was a grin on his face as he laid them on the desk. “He’s mashed on her, sure pop!” he said, with great jubilation. “You just ought to seen him smirk at her when they went down in the elevator.” “Nonsense!” said Miss Dixon, sharply. “You must be mistaken, Bob. Mr. Atherton was never known to take one of us to luncheon.” “Oh, well, you ain’t all got her style,” said the boy, unfeelingly. “Why, Miss Marlowe is a peach! She’s got all of us stuck on her.” “Much good will it do her,” said Miss Dixon, sadly. “She’s too pretty for her own good—that’s what I’ve often told her.” “She’ll wear diamonds if she sticks to me,” sang out Bob, as he went noisily out of the office. Just outside in the hall he met a beautiful young girl. She had chestnut hair and large, flashing gray eyes, and carried her head and shoulders regally. “Did you want ter see Mr. Atherton?” asked Bob, quickly. He had seen that she was a stranger, and he was the guardian of the office. “I am looking for Miss Marlowe, his typewriter,” said the beautiful girl, sweetly. “Miss Marlowe is my twin sister, and I am in a great hurry to see her.” The boy glanced up at the clock in the hall. “Sorry, miss, but she is out to lunch,” he said, briefly. “Won’t be back for at least two hours, I reckon.” “What! Does my sister spend so much time over her luncheon as that?” asked the young girl, in astonishment. “Well, not usually,” was the answer, in a drawling voice, “but she’s out with the boss to-day, you see, so I give ’em two hours. They can’t get back no sooner.” Marion Marlowe gasped at this bit of information, but she controlled herself perfectly in the presence of this youngster. “Do you happen to know where they went?” she said, pleasantly, at the same time handing the boy a bright half dollar. “He’d kill me if he knew I told,” Bob said, as he pocketed the money, “but it’s either the Astor House or Moquin’s in Fulton street, miss. If ’twas me, I’d go to the Astor House first. It’s nicer over there and not so far as the other.” Marion thanked him and turned away, with a curious feeling at her heart. There was something in the boy’s news that worried her sadly. “I seen ’em cuttin’ across the Park,” muttered Bob, after she had gone, “but she can’t say I told her. I said either one or t’other.”