“Well, you are the only one of his force he has mentioned to me, at any rate,” the importer said, persistently, “and I know he means it, for a man who has ability and can be thoroughly trusted is hard to find these days.” The three sat and chatted for an hour, Marston being interrupted now and then by a telegram or a question asked by some clerk who came from an adjoining room, where there was a din of clicking typewriting machines. “Now we'll have to go,” Whipple said, as he arose. “Fred has got some letters of instructions to write home, and I'm due in Wall Street at this very minute.” “To write letters!” Marston cried. “Well, he needn't go away to do that. Do you see that desk at the window? It is for the sole use of our customers. There is plenty of stationery. Sit down, Mr. Spencer. I'll have to leave soon myself. My wife is coming to get me to help her select some Persian rugs, and you'll have the whole office to yourself.” “A good plan, Fred,” Whipple exclaimed; “then we could meet at the Astor House and take lunch together at one o'clock. I want to see what the old place is like. My daddy stopped there once before the war.” “That's the idea!” the importer chimed in. “Make yourself thoroughly at home, Mr. Spencer. If you need anything, just tap that bell and the boy will attend to you.” When his employer had left, Fred sat down at the desk and began to write. “Oh, I forgot,” Marston said, apologetically, as he looked up from the letter he was writing. “I will call a stenographer, if you'd like to dictate your correspondence.” “Oh, thank you,” Fred answered, “it won't be necessary; I have only a few lines to write.” He had completed the task before him, and was waiting for an opportunity to leave without interrupting the merchant, who was busily writing at his desk, when an office-boy came and spoke to Marston in an undertone. “Oh, she's not alone, then!” the merchant said aloud, as he pushed back his chair. “Send them up. I am not quite ready yet, and they will have to wait.” A moment later a cheery feminine voice--evidently Mrs. Marston's--sounded in the corridor outside, where her husband stood waiting for her. “Well, I'm glad you came along, too, Miss Margaret,” Fred heard the old man saying. “You must sit down in my dusty office for a moment.” He made an effort at lowering his voice, but it was still audible. “There is only one man there, but he is young and decidedly good-looking. By-the-way, he is that Mr. Spencer, the phenomenal young business man I told you about. Come in, and I'll let you entertain him till I can get away. I've got to run down to the main salesroom.” “And I've got to telephone the cook.” It was evidently Mrs. Marston's voice again. “We are going back to lunch. The General has promised to meet us there. Where is the booth?” “At the end of the corridor,” Marston was heard directing her. “Now, come on, young lady. By George, that _is_ a stunning gown! The new railroad helped pay for that, eh?”