"It was a mere fad with her. I virtually wrote the work for her and charged her five dollars an hour." He looked at her narrowly. "Do you happen to know of any one here who wants work of that sort done?" The agent did not answer. By a series of covert glances she had been trying to learn, upside down, what it was that Mr. Queed was reading. "Sociology," she had easily picked out, but the chapter heading, on the opposite page, was more troublesome, and, deeply absorbed, she had now just succeeded in deciphering it. The particular division of his subject in which Mr. Queed was so much engrossed was called "Man's Duty to His Neighbors." Struck by the silence, Sharlee looked up with a small start, and the faintest possible blush. "I beg your pardon?" "I asked if you knew of any lady here, a wealthy one, who would like to write a thesaurus as a fad." The girl was obliged to admit that, at the moment, she could think of no such person. But her mind fastened at once on the vulgar, hopeful fact that the unsocial sociolologist wanted a job. "That's unfortunate," said Mr. Queed. "I suppose I must accept a little regular, very remunerative work--to settle this board question once and for all. An hour or two a day, at most. However, it is not easy to lay one's hand on such work in a strange city." "Perhaps," said Miss Weyland slowly, "I can help you." "I'm sure I hope so," said he with another flying glance at his watch. "That is what I have been approaching for seven minutes." "Don't you always find it an unnecessary waste of time not to be direct?" He sat, slightly frowning, impatiently fingering the pages of his book. The hit bounded off him like a rubber ball thrown against the Great Wall of China. "Well?" he demanded. "What have you to propose?" The agent sat down in a chair across the table, William Klinker's chair, and rested her chin upon her shapely little hand. The other shapely little hand toyed with the crisp twenty dollar bill, employing it to trace geometric designs upon the colored table-cloth. Mr. Queed had occasion to consult his watch again before she raised her head. "I propose," she said, "that you apply for some special editorial work on the _Post_." "The _Post_? The _Post_? The morning newspaper here?" "One of them." He laughed, actually laughed. It was a curious, slow laugh, betraying that the muscles which accomplished it were flabby for want of exercise. "And who writes the editorials on the _Post_ now?" "A gentleman named Colonel Cowles--" "Ah! His articles on taxation read as if they might have been written by a military man. I happened to read one the day before yesterday. It was most amusing--" "Excuse me. Colonel Cowles is a friend of mine--" "What has that got to do with his political economy? If he is your friend, then I should say that you have a most amusing friend." Sharlee rose, decidedly irritated. "Well--that is my suggestion. I believe you will find it worth thinking over, Good-night."