"Daren Lane."

She tripped off toward the door leading to Manton's private offices,
and Lane's gaze, curiously following her, found her costume to be
startling even to his expectant eyes. Then she disappeared. Lane's
gaze sought the corner and desk that once upon a time had been his. A
blond young lady, also with bobbed hair, was operating a typewriter at
his desk. She glanced up, and espying Lane, she suddenly stopped her
work. She recognized him. But, if she were Hattie Wilson, it was
certain that Lane did not recognize her. Then the office girl
returned.

"Step this way, please. Mr. Smith will see you."

How singularly it struck Lane that not once in three years had he
thought of Smith. But when he saw him, the intervening months were as
nothing. Lean, spare, pallid, with baggy eyes, and the nose of a
drinker, Smith had not changed.

"How do, Lane. So you're back? Welcome to our city," he said,
extending a nerveless hand that felt to Lane like a dead fish.

"Hello, Mr. Smith. Yes, I'm back," returned Lane, taking the chair
Smith indicated. And then he met the inevitable questions as best he
could in order not to appear curt or uncivil.

"I'd like to see Mr. Manton to ask for my old job," interposed Lane,
presently.

"He's busy now, Lane, but maybe he'll see you. I'll find out."