keep just beyond his actual reach.

It would certainly seem that thought can travel across space between
minds sympathetically in tune, for just as the secretary put his
latch-key into his shiny blue door the idea flashed through him, 'I
wonder what Mr. Rogers will do, now that he's got his leisure, with a
fortune and--me!' And at the same moment Rogers, in his deep arm-chair
before the fire, was saying to himself, 'I'm glad Minks has come to
me; he's just the man I want for my big Scheme!' And then--'Pity he's
such a lugubrious looking fellow, and wears those dreadful fancy
waistcoats. But he's very open to suggestion. We can change all that.
I must look after Minks a bit. He's rather sacrificed his career for
me, I fancy. He's got high aims. Poor little Minks!'

'I'll stand by him whatever happens,' was the thought the slamming of
the blue door interrupted. 'To be secretary to such a man is already
success.' And again he hugged his secret and himself.

As already said, the new-fledged secretary was married and wrote
poetry on the sly. He had four children. He would make an ideal
helpmate, worshipping his employer with that rare quality of being
interested in his ideas and aims beyond the mere earning of a salary;
seeing, too, in that employer more than he, the latter, supposed. For,
while he wrote verses on the sly, 'my chief,' as he now preferred to
call him, lived poetry in his life.

'He's got it, you know, my dear,' he announced to his wife, as he
kissed her and arranged his tie in the gilt mirror over the plush
mantelpiece in the 'parlour'; 'he's got the divine thing in him right
enough; got it, too, as strong as hunger or any other natural