She did not even know that she would be ten minutes late until she saw a clock at Fourteenth Street. Then she raced to the door of a big, many-storied building. A timekeeper shook his head at her, but, punctual as a rule, on wet mornings she was invariably the first to arrive, so the watch-dog compromised on the give-and-take principle. When she emerged from the elevator at the ninth floor her cheeks were still suffused with color, her eyes were alight, her lips parted under the spell of excitement and haste. In a word, she looked positively bewitching. Two people evidently took this view of her as she advanced into the workroom after hanging up her hat and coat. "You're late again, Bartlett," snapped Miss Agatha Sugg, a forewoman, whose initials suggested an obvious nickname among the set of flippant girls she ruled with a severity that was also ungracious. "I'll not speak to you any more on the matter. Next time you'll be fired. See?" Winifred's high color fled before this dire threat. Even the few dollars a week she earned by binding books was essential to the up-keep of her home. At any rate this fact was dinned into her ears constantly, and formed a ready argument against any change of employment. "I'm sorry, Miss Sugg," she stammered. "I didn't think I had lost any time. Indeed, I started out earlier than usual." "Rubbish!" snorted Miss Sugg. "What're givin' me? It's a fine day." "Yes," said Winifred timidly, "but unfortunately I stopped a while on Riverside Drive to watch the police bringing in the boat from which Mr. Tower was mur--pulled into the river last night." "Riverside Drive!" snapped the forewoman. "Your address is East One Hundred and Twelfth Street, ain't it? What were you doing on Riverside Drive?" "I walk that way every morning unless it is raining." Miss Sugg looked incredulous, but felt that she was traveling outside her own territory. "Anyhow," she said, "that's your affair, not mine, an' it's no excuse for bein' late." "Oh, come now," intervened a man's voice, "this young lady is not so far behind time as to cause such a row. She can pull out a bit and make up for it." Miss Sugg wheeled wrathfully to find Mr. Fowle, manager on that floor, gazing at Winifred with marked approval. Fowle, a shifty-eyed man of thirty, compactly built, and somewhat of a dandy, seldom gave heed to any of the girls employed by Brown, Son & Brown. His benevolent attitude toward Winifred was a new departure. "Young lady!" gasped the forewoman. She was in such a temper that other words failed. "Yes, she isn't an old one," smirked Fowle. "That's all right, Miss Bartlett, get on with your work. Miss Sugg's bark is worse than her bite."