action. It brought the anxious-looking stenographer to the
doorway, notebook in hand, ready. It sent the lean
secretary out, and up to Fanny.

"Temper," said Fanny, to herself, "or horribly nervous and
high-keyed. They jump like a set of puppets on a string."

It was then that the lean secretary had said, "Mr. Fenger
will see you now."

Fanny was aware of a pleasant little tingle of excitement.
She entered the inner office.

It was characteristic of Michael Fenger that he employed no
cheap tricks. He was not writing as Fanny Brandeis came in.
He was not telephoning. He was not doing anything but
standing at his desk, waiting for Fanny Brandeis. As she
came in he looked at her, through her, and she seemed to
feel her mental processes laid open to him as a skilled
surgeon cuts through skin and flesh and fat, to lay
bare the muscles and nerves and vital organs beneath. He
put out his hand. Fanny extended hers. They met in a
silent grip. It was like a meeting between two men. Even
as he indexed her, Fanny's alert mind was busy docketing,
numbering, cataloguing him. They had in common a certain
force, a driving power. Fanny seated herself opposite him,
in obedience to a gesture. He crossed his legs comfortably
and sat back in his big desk chair. A great-bodied man,
with powerful square shoulders, a long head, a rugged crest
of a nose--the kind you see on the type of Englishman who