Part 20 (2/2)

”Mrs. Fenger's a semi-invalid. At that I don't believe she's as helpless as she seems. I think she just holds him by that shawl of hers, that's forever slipping. You know he was a machine boy in her father's woolen mill. She met him after he'd worked his way up to an office job. He has forged ahead like a locomotive ever since.”

That had been their conversation, gossipy, but tremendously enlightening for f.a.n.n.y. She looked up at him now.

”Thanks for the vacation suggestion. I may go off somewhere. Just a last-minute leap. It usually turns out better, that way. I'll be ready for the Wednesday discussion.”

She sounded very final and busy. The crumpled letter lay on her desk.

She smoothed it out, and the crumple transferred itself to her forehead.

Fenger stood a moment, looking down at her. Then he turned, abruptly and left the office. f.a.n.n.y did not look up.

That was Friday. On Sat.u.r.day her vacation took a personally conducted turn. She had planned to get away at noon, as most office heads did on Sat.u.r.day, during the warm weather. When her 'phone rang at eleven she answered it mechanically as does one whose telephone calls mean a row with a tardy manufacturer, an argument with a merchandise man, or a catalogue query from the printer's.

The name that came to her over the telephone conveyed nothing to her.

”Who?” Again the name. ”Heyl?” She repeated the name uncertainly. ”I'm afraid I--O, of course! Clarence Heyl. Howdy-do.”

”I want to see you,” said the voice, promptly.

There rose up in f.a.n.n.y's mind a cruelly clear picture of the little, sallow, sniveling school boy of her girlhood. The little boy with the big gla.s.ses and the s.h.i.+ny shoes, and the weak lungs.

”Sorry,” she replied, promptly, ”but I'm afraid it's impossible. I'm leaving the office early, and I'm swamped.” Which was a lie.

”This evening?”

”I rarely plan anything for the evening. Too tired, as a rule.”

”Too tired to drive?”

”I'm afraid so.”

A brief silence. Then, ”I'm coming out there to see you.”

”Where? Here? The plant! That's impossible, Mr. Heyl. I'm terribly sorry, but I can't----”

”Yes, I know. Also terribly sure that if I ever get to you it will be over your office boy's dead body. Well, arm him. I'm coming. Good-by.”

”Wait a minute! Mr. Heyl! Clarence! h.e.l.lo! h.e.l.lo!”

A jiggling of the hook. ”Number, please?” droned the voice of the operator.

f.a.n.n.y jammed the receiver down on the hook and turned to her work, lips compressed, a frown forming a double cleft between her eyes.

Half an hour later he was there. Her office boy brought in his card, as she had rehea.r.s.ed him to do. f.a.n.n.y noted that it was the wrong kind of card. She would show him what happened to pushers who pestered business women during office hours.

”Bring him in in twenty minutes,” she said, grimly. Her office boy (and slave) always took his cue from her. She hoped he wouldn't be too rude to Heyl, and turned back to her work again. Thirty-nine seconds later Clarence Heyl walked in.

”h.e.l.lo, Fan!” he said, and had her limp hand in a grip that made her wince.

”But I told----”

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