The restless hand of change, always active in New York, had not spared the outer office of the Fillmore Nicholas Theatrical Enterprises Ltd. in the months of her absence. She was greeted on her arrival by an entirely new and original stripling in the place of the one with whom at her last visit she had established such cordial relations. Like his predecessor he was generously pimpled, but there the resemblance stopped. He was a grim boy, and his manner was stern and suspicious. He peered narrowly at Sally for a moment as if he had caught her in the act of purloining the office blotting-paper, then, with no little acerbity, desired her to state her business. “I want Mr. Kemp,” said Sally. The office-boy scratched his cheek dourly with a ruler. No one would have guessed, so austere was his aspect, that a moment before her entrance he had been trying to balance it on his chin, juggling the while with a pair of paper-weights. For, impervious as he seemed to human weaknesses, it was this lad's ambition one day to go into vaudeville. “What name?” he said, coldly. “Nicholas,” said Sally. “I am Mr. Nicholas' sister.” On a previous occasion when she had made this announcement, disastrous results had ensued; but to-day it went well. It seemed to hit the office-boy like a bullet. He started convulsively, opened his mouth, and dropped the ruler. In the interval of stooping and recovering it he was able to pull himself together. He had not been curious about Sally's name. What he had wished was to have the name of the person for whom she was asking repeated. He now perceived that he had had a bit of luck. A wearying period of disappointment in the matter of keeping the paper-weights circulating while balancing the ruler, had left him peevish, and it had been his intention to work off his ill-humour on the young visitor. The discovery that it was the boss's sister who was taking up his time, suggested the advisability of a radical change of tactics. He had stooped with a frown: he returned to the perpendicular with a smile that was positively winning. It was like the sun suddenly bursting through a London fog. “Will you take a seat, lady?” he said, with polished courtesy even unbending so far as to reach out and dust one with the sleeve of his coat. He added that the morning was a fine one. “Thank you,” said Sally. “Will you tell him I'm here.” “Mr. Nicholas is out, miss,” said the office-boy, with gentlemanly regret. “He's back in New York, but he's gone out.” “I don't want Mr. Nicholas. I want Mr. Kemp.” “Mr. Kemp?” “Yes, Mr. Kemp.” Sorrow at his inability to oblige shone from every hill-top on the boy's face. “Don't know of anyone of that name around here,” he said, apologetically. “But surely...” Sally broke off suddenly. A grim foreboding had come to her. “How long have you been here?” she asked. “All day, ma'am,” said the office-boy, with the manner of a Casablanca. “I mean, how long have you been employed here?”