Another woman would have wilted under the reproof; there was something very wiltless about Miss Gillette. She just closed her eyes wearily. “Let’s go,” she said, and it was Mr. Reeder who was reproved. “This is a report on the Wimburg Case,” he said, and began his hesitant dictation. As he grew into his subject, he spoke with greater and greater rapidity. Never once did Miss Gillette interrupt with a question, to gain time for her lagging pencil. There was a ceaseless snap as the pages of her notebook turned. “That is all,” he said breathlessly. “I trust that I did not go too fast for you?” “I hardly noticed that you were moving,” she said, wetted her fingers and flicked back the pages. “You used the word ‘unsubstantial’ three times: once you meant ‘inadequate’ and once ‘unreal’. I would suggest that we alter those.” Mr. Reeder moved uncomfortably in his chair. “Are you sure?” he asked feebly. She was always sure, because she was always right. It was not true to say that Mr. Reeder had ever engaged a secretary. It was Miss Gillette who engaged him. By one of those odd coincidences which are unacceptable to the lovers of fiction but which occur in everyday life, she arrived at Mr. Reeder’s office on the day and at the hour he was expecting a temporary typist from an agency. For some reason the agency lady did not arrive, or, if she did, was interviewed by Miss Gillette, who, fulfilling the practice of the young queen bee, destroyed her rival--in the nicest possible sense. And when Mr. Reeder, having concluded the work for which he had engaged her, would have dismissed her with a ten-shilling note, shyly tendered and brazenly accepted, he learned that she was a fixture. He lay awake for an hour on the following Friday night, debating with himself whether he should deduct the ten shillings from her salary. “Are there any appointments?” he asked. There was none. Mr. Reeder knew there was none before he asked. It was at this point that his daily embarrassment was invariably overcome. “Nothing in the papers, I suppose?” “Nothing except the Pimlico murder case. The funny thing is that the man who was killed----” “Nothing funny about--um--that, my dear young lady,” murmured Mr. Reeder. “Funny? Dear, dear!” “When I said ‘funny,’ I didn’t mean ‘amusing’ but ‘odd’,” she said. “And if you are getting back for ‘unsubstantial,’ you will be pleased to know that you have got. He was Vladimir Litnoff--you remember, the man who was drunk and said that he had a brooch.” Mr. Reeder nodded calmly. Apparently Litnoff’s death was not startling news. “It is my--um--mind, my dear young friend. I see evil things where other people see innocent things. And yet, in the question of human relationships, I take the kindliest and most charitable views. H’m! The young man who was with you at the Regal Cinema, for example----”