ing in her set,
unsmiling face, told him that she was not seeing seashores. She was
staring straight at him, straight through him, miles beyond him. There
was about her that tense, electric, breathless air of complete
detachment, which always enveloped her when her lightning mind was
leaping ahead to a goal unguessed by the slower thinking.

"What's your tailor's name?"

"Name? Trotter. Why?"

Emma McChesney had the telephone operator before he could finish.

"Get me Trotter, the tailor, T-r-o-double-t-e-r. Say I want to speak
to the tailor who fits Mr. Ed Meyers, of the Sans-Silk Skirt Company."

T. A. Buck leaned forward, mouth open, eyes wide. "Well, what in the
name of----"

"I'll let you know in a minute. Maybe I'm wrong. It's just one of my
hunches. But for ten years I sold Featherlooms through the same
territory that Ed Meyers was covering for the Sans-Silk Skirt people.
It didn't take me ten years to learn that Fat Ed hadn't the decency to
be ashamed of any deal he turned, no matter how raw. And let me tell
you, T. A.: If he dodged when he saw you it wasn't because he was
ashamed of having played us low-down. He was contemplating playing
lower-down. Of course, I may be----"

She picked up the receiver in answer to the bell. Then, sweetly, her
calm eyes smiling into Buck's puzzled ones:

"Hello! Is this Mr. Meyers' tailor? I'm to ask if you are sure that
the grade he selected is the proper weight for the tropics. What? Oh,
you say you assured him it was the weight of flannel you always advise
for South America. And you said they'd be ready when? Next week?
Thank you."

She hung up the receiver. The pupils of her eyes were dilated. Her
cheeks were very pink as always under excitement. She stood up, her
breath coming rather quickly.

"Hurray for the hunch! It holds. Fat Ed Meyers is going down to South
America for the Sans-Silk Company. It's what I've been planning to do
for the last six months. You remember I spoke of it. You pooh-poohed
the idea. It means hundreds of thousands of dollars to the Sans-Silk
people if they get it. But they won't get it."

T. A. Buck stood up suddenly.

"Look here, Emma! If you're----"

"I certainly am. Nothing can stop me. The skirt business has
been--well, you know what it's been for the last two years. The South
American boats sail twice a month. Fat Ed Meyers' clothes are promised
for next week. That means he isn't sailing until