The assistant bookkeeper took up his pen, looking at it musingly. He knew, perhaps better than the head bookkeeper, to what he owed his appointment. Six months ago he had been in the employ of the rival road. Just why he had left them was his own affair, as were also the wires that had been pulled in his behalf along the “R. and Q.” Well, he was here. He had gathered much interesting information in his six months--information that might be valuable--very valuable--some day. He dipped his pen in the ink.... As for this John Bennett.... The pens were both at work now, flying fast. “You want Edith?” Congdon, the head billing-clerk, looked up from his file of bills with a little scowl; it changed slowly to pleasure. “Why, how are you, John? Did n’t know you were back... Edith--Well, yes, I took her--wanted another hand here. Marshall said they could spare one from the office. So I took the littlest.” He smiled genially. “Littlest and best,” said John. The other laughed out. “I began to suspect it--The old man wants her back?” “Right off.” Congdon turned a little in his place. “Oh, Edith!” He raised his voice and the girl across the room looked up. He beckoned to her and she came slowly, leaving her machine with a little touch that was almost a pat, as if it said, “Coming back very soon.” “Yes, sir.” She stood before them waiting, a slight, dark girl, with clear glance. “Ah,” the man’s eyes dwelt on her kindly. “They want you back in the office, Edith. You need n’t stop to finish.--I ’ll put some one else on those.” She turned away with a look that was almost a smile of pleasure. Half way to her table she paused and came back. “I can take my machine, can’t I?” He laughed tolerantly. “Oh, take it along, if you want to--Nobody else wants it.” John followed her to the table. “I ’ll carry it for you, Edith.” She slipped out the paper she had been at work on and began gathering up the trifles from her table. When he set down the machine in the president’s office, a ripple of eyebrows passed it by--glances too busy for comment. The clatter of the typewriters rose and hummed. The hive could not pause for a worker more or less. She slipped into her place with a little smile and nod, waiting while John shifted the telephone connection and swung a bulb, with its green shade, conveniently in place. The little bell rang sharply and she leaned to the receiver. “Hello!” John crossed to the young woman by the window. She had finished a sheet and was drawing it out with a quick swirl. “All done?” he asked pleasantly. She ignored him, rubbing out an offending word and blowing away the black fuzz before she looked up. “What is it?” she said sharply. Her hair, which was red and crisp, glinted as she turned her head.