"Isn't there some one here?" he cried. "Don't I hear a typewriter?"

The noise stopped. There was a slight rustling from a far corner, beyond
his view, and presently he saw advancing a slim and shrinking slip of a
girl with a face that impressed him only as small and insignificant. In
a quiet little voice she said, "Yes, sir. Do you wish anything?"

"Why, what are you doing here?" he asked. "I don't think I've ever seen
you before."

"Yes. I took dictation from you several times," replied she.

He was instantly afraid he might have hurt her feelings, and he, who in
the days when he was far, far less than now, had often suffered from
that commonplace form of brutality, was most careful not to commit it.
"I never know what's going on round me when I'm thinking," explained he,
though he was saying to himself that the next time he would probably
again be unable to remember one with nothing distinctive to fix
identity. "You are--Miss----?"

"Miss Hallowell."

"How do you happen to be here? I've given particular instructions that
no one is ever to be detained after hours."

A little color appeared in the pale, small face--and now he saw that she
had a singularly fair and smooth skin, singularly beautiful--and he
wondered why he had not noticed it before. Being a close observer, he
had long ago noted and learned to appreciate the wonders of that most
amazing of tissues, the human skin; and he had come to be a connoisseur.