young men, and as he stood there he seemed to fill the doorway.

It was this sense of bigness that he conveyed, his cleanness, his
magnificent fitness, that for the moment overcame Mrs. Porter. Physical
fitness was her gospel. She stared at him in silent appreciation.

To the young man, however, her forceful gaze did not convey this
quality. She seemed to him to be looking as if she had caught him in
the act of endeavouring to snatch her purse. He had been thrown a
little off his balance by the encounter.

Resource in moments of crisis is largely a matter of preparedness, and
a man, who, having opened his door in the expectation of seeing a
ginger-haired, bow-legged, grinning George Pennicut, is confronted by a
masterful woman with eyes like gimlets, may be excused for not guessing
that her piercing stare is an expression of admiration and respect.

Mrs. Porter broke the silence. It was ever her way to come swiftly to
the matter in hand.

"Mr. Kirk Winfield?"

"Yes."

"Have you in your employment a red-haired, congenital idiot who ambles
about New York in an absent-minded way, as if he were on a desert
island? The man I refer to is a short, stout Englishman, clean-shaven,
dressed in black."

"That sounds like George Pennicut."