Now his gaze was lost in her hair, as if he found hope there. Story failures and New York, fear, and its tough core of hunger, these amounted to one thing--but red hair was another. The astonishing part was the constant changing of expressions in his eye. They reflected every mood and whim of him, for one who could read; that is, when he forgot to veil them for purposes of his own. Just now he seemed to be wondering if he had better go any further with this red hair--if he had time to play. He didn’t seem to consider whether Pidge wanted to play or not, only whether the game were worth the while of one whose law was not to let any real chance slip. Pidge had forgotten the hurt of her message from John Higgins. She had a pronounced feeling that she wanted to hurt Melton some way herself.... “So I can’t see Mr. Higgins?” “He’s been unusually rushed to-day.” He laughed a little bitterly as if he understood all that. “Are you--are you his secretary?” “No, an under reader.” “I see. Have you been through any of my stuff?” Pidge glanced at him resentfully; she felt he wouldn’t have asked such a question of a man. “This is a sort of show-down with me,” he went on. “I’m leaving New York. I really hoped to see Mr. Higgins.” His dilemma seemed real. It pulled her out from herself. “I’m sorry----” “Perhaps you--I’d have to know before to-morrow,” he said jerkily. “Perhaps you’d look at another story just finished? If you would read it--there is just a chance you might want to get it to Mr. Higgins before I go.” “Have you the story with you?” “No. I was hoping for good word from one of the others first. This new one is my last wallop. Might I bring it to you, anywhere you say, this evening?” “You may leave it with Miss Claes at 54 Harrow Street.” “Are you Miss Claes?” “No, but she will give it to me.” “Could I call later in the evening also, for your answer? It is only four or five thousand words.” “You know, my reading is merely--I mean Mr. Higgins would have to decide.” “But it would help--if the story pleased you--help to pass the night!” “You may leave it with Miss Claes at the basement entrance and call a little later.” Pidge found herself walking on tiptoe back to her desk, the catch still in her throat. XII UNDER THE SAME LAMP THE manuscript was delivered while Pidge was out to supper. She took it upstairs to Cobden’s “parlor” and read with a nervous interest, and an uncomfortable feeling that Rufus Melton was looking down at her all the time. She didn’t lose herself in the story, but the feeling persisted that she might have done so, another time--especially if the manuscript had come to her in the usual way at the office. Certainly it was different and distinctive, compared to the run of the unsolicited. It was artful, if not art.... She heard Nagar’s quiet steady step as he passed up to his room. She had an impulse to ask him to read, but he wouldn’t say anything. Anyway, he was gone now.