“Oh, I forgot,” Marston said, apologetically, as he looked up from the letter he was writing. “I will call a stenographer, if you'd like to dictate your correspondence.”
“Oh, thank you,” Fred answered, “it won't be necessary; I have only a few lines to write.”
He had completed the task before him, and was waiting for an opportunity to leave without interrupting the merchant, who was busily writing at his desk, when an office-boy came and spoke to Marston in an undertone.
“Oh, she's not alone, then!” the merchant said aloud, as he pushed back his chair. “Send them up. I am not quite ready yet, and they will have to wait.”
A moment later a cheery feminine voice--evidently Mrs. Marston's--sounded in the corridor outside, where her husband stood waiting for her.
“Well, I'm glad you came along, too, Miss Margaret,” Fred heard the old man saying. “You must sit down in my dusty office for a moment.” He made an effort at lowering his voice, but it was still audible. “There is only one man there, but he is young and decidedly good-looking. By-the-way, he is that Mr. Spencer, the phenomenal young business man I told you about. Come in, and I'll let you entertain him till I can get away. I've got to run down to the main salesroom.”
“And I've got to telephone the cook.” It was evidently Mrs. Marston's voice again. “We are going back to lunch. The General has promised to meet us there. Where is the booth?”
“At the end of the corridor,” Marston was heard directing her. “Now, come on, young lady. By George, that _is_ a stunning gown! The new railroad helped pay for that, eh?”
The thin canvas door was pushed open. Fred stood up; his eyes dilated; his blood ran cold. It was Margaret Dearing to whom the voluble merchant was casually introducing him.
“Mr. _Spencer!_” she echoed, then quickly averted her face from the inattentive glance of her host.
Walton's eyes went down as he bowed, white and quivering. He could say nothing.
“Now, I'll leave you two to get acquainted,” Marston said, quite unconscious that anything unusual had happened, and, gathering up some sheets of paper from his desk, he hastened away.
“Margaret!” Walton gasped, when they were alone in the awful silence of the room.
“Mr. Spencer?--_Spencer?_” the young lady groped, as she gazed on him in helpless wonder.
