Though he had poured oil on the troubled waters his air was not altogether reassuring. Winifred went to her bench in a flurry of trepidation. She dreaded the vixenish Miss Sugg less than the too complaisant manager. Somehow, she fancied that he would soon speak to her again; when, a few minutes later, he drew near, and she felt rather than saw that he was staring at her boldly, she flushed to the nape of her graceful neck. Yet he put a quite orthodox question. "Did I get your story right when you came in?" he said. "I think you told Miss Sugg that the harbor police had picked up the motor-boat in that yacht case." "So I heard," said Winifred. She was in charge of a wire-stitching machine, and her deft fingers were busy. Moreover, she was resolved not to give Fowle any pretext for prolonging the conversation. "Who told you?" The manager's tone grew a trifle less cordial. He was not accustomed to being held at arm's length by any young woman in the establishment whom he condescended to notice. "I really don't know," and Winifred began placing her array of work in sorted piles. "Indeed, I spoke carelessly. No one told me. I saw a commotion on Riverside Drive, and heard a man arguing with others that a boat then being towed by a police launch must be the missing one." Fowle's whiff of annoyance had passed. He had jumped to the conclusion that such an extremely pretty girl would surely own a sweetheart who escorted her to and from work each day. He did not suspect that every junior clerk downstairs had in turn offered his services in this regard, but with such lack of success that each would-be suitor deemed Winifred conceited. "I wish I had been there," he said. "Do you go home the same way?" "No." Winifred was aware that the other girls were watching her furtively and exchanging meaning looks. "You take the Third Avenue L, I suppose?" persisted Fowle. Then Winifred faced him squarely. For some reason her temper got the better of her. "It is a house rule, Mr. Fowle," she said, "that the girls are forbidden to talk during working hours." "Nonsense," laughed Fowle. "I'm in charge here, an' what I say goes." He left her, however, and busied himself elsewhere. Apparently, he was even forgiving enough to call Miss Sugg out of the room and detain her all the rest of the morning. Winifred was promptly rallied by some of her companions. "I must say this for you, Winnie Bartlett, you don't think you're the whole shootin' match," said a stout, red-faced creature, who would have been more at home on a farm than in a New York warehouse, "but it gets my goat when you hand the mustard to Fowle in that way. If he made goo-goo eyes at me, I'd play, too." "I wish little Carlotta was a blue-eyed, golden-haired queen," sighed another, a squat Neapolitan with the complexion of a Moor. "She's give Fowle a chance to dig into his pocketbook, believe me."