Wing, he had little idea that the young fellow would get hold of a clew.

When the elevator stopped at the main floor, Harvey thrust the half-read
note back into his pocket. "No time for that sort of thing this morning,"
he thought. "I wonder how soon I'll be able to run down to see her." A
moment later he was walking rapidly toward the Dartmouth.

The men he saw and nodded to glanced round at him enviously. "Case of
luck," growled somebody. That was true. Harvey was lucky; lucky first and
foremost in that Ethel Harvey was his mother. He got his mental agility
as well as his indomitable cheeriness from her. He was a healthy, sane
young fellow who found it easy to work hard, who could loaf most
enjoyably when loafing was in order, and who had the knack of seeing the
humorous side of a trying situation. He had always had plenty of money,
but that was not the reason he got more fun out of his four years in
college than any other man in his class. He "got down to business" very
quickly after his graduation, and now at the end of another four years he
was private secretary to Jim Weeks. That of course wasn't luck. The fact
that Jim had fallen in love with Ethel Harvey thirty years before might
account for his friendly interest in her son, but it would not explain
Harvey's position of trust. He knew that he could not hold it a day
except by continuing to be the most available man for the place.

It is probable that on this morning, the contents of the pale blue note
contributed largely to his cheerfulness. It was evident that Miss Porter
liked him, and Harvey liked to be liked.

Wing's office on the sixth floor of the Dartmouth was a beautifully
furnished suite, presided over by a boy in cut-steel buttons. Wing himself
was a dapper little man, a capitalist by necessity only, for his money had