the late afternoon grayness. Her delicate face, as she
regarded her uncle, revealed most strongly its characteristic
over-earnestness and a sensitive reflection of the moods of those
around her. Emily Ffrench's childhood had been passed in a Canadian
convent, and something of its mysticism clung about her. As the
cheerful change she had wrought flashed over the room, Mr. Ffrench
held out his hand in a gesture of summons, so that she came across to
sit on the broad arm of his chair during the rest of the conference,
her soft gaze resting on the third member.
"My adopted son and nephew having no such talents, we must do the best
we can," Mr. Ffrench stated, with his most precise coldness. "Being
well-born and well-bred, he has no taste for a mechanic's labor or for
circus performances with automobiles in public. Who is your man,
Bailey?"
"Lestrange, sir. You must have heard of him often."
"I never read racing news."
"I read ours," said Bailey darkly. "We've been licked often enough by
him. And he's straight--he's one of the few men who'll stop at the
grand-stand and lose time reporting a smash-up and sending help
around. Every man on the track likes Darling Lestrange."
"Likes _whom_?"
Bailey flushed brick-red.
"I didn't mean to call him that. He signs himself D. Lestrange, and
some of them started reading it Darling, joking because he was such a
favorite and because they liked him anyhow. It's just a nickname."
Emily laughed out involuntarily, surprised.
"I beg pardon," she at once apologized, "but it sounded so frivolous."
"If you try this man, you had better keep that nickname out of the
factory," Mr. Ffrench advised stiffly. "What respect could the workmen
feel for a manager with such a title? If possible, you would do well
to prevent them from recognizing him as the racing driver."
Bailey, who had risen at the chime of a clock, halted amazed.
[Illustration]
"Respect for him!" he echoed. "Not recognize him! Why, there isn't a
man on the place who wouldn't give his ears to be seen on the same
side of the street with Lestrange, let alone to work under him. They
_do_ read the racing news. That part of it will be all right, if I can
have him."
"If it is necessary--"
"I think it is, sir."
Emily moved slightly, pushing back her yellow-brown curls under the
ribbon that banded them. On a sudden impulse her uncle looked up at
her.
"What is your opinion?" he questioned. "If Dick had been l
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