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

There rose up in Fanny's mind a cruelly clear picture of the
little, sallow, sniveling school boy of her girlhood. The
little boy with the big glasses and the shiny 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! Hello! Hello!"