Miss Kinzey.”
“I know it; but we’ve a heap to do first.”
Miss Kinzey was from Milwaukee, somewhat direct of speech; and as her fancy leaned towards the secretary, she divined there was work in hand. He was looking earnestly at the vast roller-map of America on the wall.
“Milsom, we’re going right across. Private car—straight through—Boston. Fix the connections,” shouted Cheyne down the staircase.
“I thought so.”
The secretary turned to the typewriter, and their eyes met (out of that was born a story—nothing to do with this story). She looked inquiringly, doubtful of his resources. He signed to her to move to the Morse as a general brings brigades into action. Then he swept his hand musician-wise through his hair, regarded the ceiling, and set to work, while Miss Kinzey’s white fingers