NEXT day there appeared at the offices of Thomas Stoughton, in Nassau Street, a trim, well-looking man, who had urgent business with Mr. Fellows, the manager. He was kept waiting for some time before being introduced into that gentleman's private room; but this did not seem to disturb him. There was plenty to look at, or so he seemed to think, and his keen, noncommittal eyes flashed hither and thither¹ and from face to face with restless activity. He seemed particularly interested in the bookkeeper of the establishment, but it was an interest which did not last long, and when a neat, pleasant-faced young woman rose from her seat and passed rapidly across the room, it was upon her his eyes settled and remained fixed³, with a growing attention, until a certain door closed upon her with a sound like a snapping lock. Then he transferred his attention to the door, and was still gazing at it when a boy summoned him to the manager's office.  
He went in with reluctance⁴. He had rather have watched that door. But he had questions to ask, and so made a virtue⁵ of necessity. Mr. Fellows was not pleased to see him. He started quite guiltily from his seat and only sat again on compulsion—the compulsion of his visitor's steady and quelling⁶ eye.
 
"I've business with you, Mr. Fellows." Then, the boy being gone, "Which is the room? The one opening out of the general office directly opposite this?"
 
 
Mr. Fellows nodded.
 
"I have just seen one of the employees go in there. I should like to see that person come out. Do you mind talking with this door open? I know enough about banking⁷ to hold up my end of the conversation."
 
Fellows rose with a jerk and pushed the door back. His visitor smiled easily and launched into a discussion about stocks and bonds interspersed⁸ with a few assertions and questions not meant for the general ear, as:
 
"It's the girl who is in there. Not ordinary, by any means. Just the sort an old smudge like Stoughton would be apt to trust. Now what's that?"
 
"Singing. She often sings. I've forbidden it, but she forgets, she says," answered Fellows.
 
"Pretty good music. Listen to that note. High as a prima donna's. Does she sing at her work?"
 
"No; I'd fire her if she did. It's only when she's walking about or when——"
 
"She's in that room?"
 
"Yes."
 
"At par²? I buy nothing at par. There! She's coming. I wish I dared intercept⁹ her, rifle her pockets. Do you know if she has pockets?"
 
"No; how should I?"
 
"Fellows, you're not worth your salt. Ah! there's a face for you, and I can read it like a book. Did a letter or cablegram come to-day?"
 
"Yes; didn't you see it? Hung up in the outer office."
 
"I thought I saw something. Ninety-five? That's a quotation¹⁰ worth listening to. Three at ninety-five. That girl's a trump¹¹. I will see more of my lady." Here he took care to shut the door. "I've been the rounds, Fellows. Private-detective work and all that. She is the only puzzler among the group. You'll hear from me again; meanwhile treat the girl well. Don't spring any traps; leave that to me."
 
And Fellows, panting with excitement, promised, muttering under his breath:
 
"A woman! That's even worse than I thought. But we'll make the old fellow pay for it. Those securities are ours. I already feel them in my hand."
 
The sinister¹² twitch¹³ which marred¹⁴ the other's mouth emphasized the assertion in a way Grace Lee's friends would have trembled to see.