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Her frank, clear, honest, blue eyes were plumbing the depths of the black ones. “Those few thousand dollars that you hold so lightly will mean everything to me. They’ve been my cyclone-cellar. If–“

Through the writing-room sounded a high-pitched, monotonous voice with a note of inquiry in it.

“Mrs. McChesney! Mr. Fraser! Mr. Ludwig! Please! Mrs. McChesney! Mr. Fraser! Mr. Lud–“

“Here, boy!” Mrs. McChesney took the little yellow envelope from the salver that the boy held out to her. Her quick glance rested on the written words. She rose, her face colorless.

“Not bad news?” The two men spoke simultaneously.

“I don’t know,” said Emma McChesney. “What would you say?”

She handed the slip of paper to Fat Ed Meyers. He read it in silence. Then once more, aloud:

“‘Take first train back to New York. Spalding will finish your trip.'”

“Why–say–” began Meyers.

“Well?”

“Why–say–this–this looks as if you were fired!”

“Does, doesn’t it?” She smiled.

“Then our little agreement goes?” The two men were on their feet, eager, alert. “That means you’ll take Fromkin’s offer?”

“It means that our little agreement is off. I’m sorry to disappoint you. I want to thank you both for your trouble. I must have been crazy to listen to you for a minute. I wouldn’t have if I’d been myself.”

“But that telegram–“

“It’s signed, ‘T. A. Buck.’ I’ll take a chance.”

The two men stared after her, disappointment and bewilderment chasing across each face.

“Well, I thought I knew women, but–” began Ed Meyers fluently.

Passing the desk, Mrs. McChesney heard her name. She glanced toward the clerk. He was just hanging up the telephone-receiver.

“Baggage-room says the depot just notified ’em your trunks were traced to Columbia City. They’re on their way here now.”

“Columbia City!” repeated Emma McChesney. “Do you know, I believe I’ve learned to hate the name of the discoverer of this fair land.”

Up in her room she opened the crumpled telegram again, and regarded it thoughtfully before she began to pack her bag.

The thoughtful look was still there when she entered the big bright office of the T. A. Buck Featherloom Petticoat Company. And with it was another expression that resembled contrition.

“Mr. Buck’s waiting for you,” a stenographer told her.

Mrs. McChesney opened the door of the office marked “Private.”

Two men rose. One she recognized as the firm’s lawyer. The other, who came swiftly toward her, was T. A. Buck–no longer junior. There was a new look about him–a look of responsibility, of efficiency, of clear- headed knowledge.

The two clasped hands–a firm, sincere, understanding grip.

Buck spoke first. “It’s good to see you. We were talking of you as you came in. You know Mr. Beggs, of course. He has some things to tell you–and so have I. His will be business things, mine will be personal. I got there before father passed away–thank God! But he couldn’t speak. He’d anticipated that with his clear-headedness, and he’d written what he wanted to say. A great deal of it was about you. I want you to read that letter later.”

“I shall consider it a privilege,” said Emma McChesney.

Mr. Beggs waved her toward a chair. She took it in silence. She heard him in silence, his sonorous voice beating upon her brain.

“There are a great many papers and much business detail, but that will be attended to later,” began Beggs ponderously. “You are to be congratulated on the position of esteem and trust which you held in the mind of your late employer. By the terms of his will–I’ll put it briefly, for the moment–you are offered the secretaryship of the firm of T. A. Buck, Incorporated. Also you are bequeathed thirty shares in the firm. Of course, the company will have to be reorganized. The late Mr. Buck had great trust in your capabilities.”

Emma McChesney rose to her feet, her breath coming quickly. She turned to T. A. Buck. “I want you to know–I want you to know–that just before your telegram came I was half tempted to leave the firm. To–“

“Can’t blame you,” smiled T. A. Buck. “You’ve had a rotten six months of it, beginning with that illness and ending with those infernal trunks. The road’s no place for a woman.”

“Nonsense!” flashed Emma McChesney. “I’ve loved it. I’ve gloried in it. And I’ve earned my living by it. Giving it up–don’t now think me ungrateful–won’t be so easy, I can tell you.”