approached the familiar door-way, and the anteroom--the
scene of his discomfiture when Donnelly presented Mart's
liquor-bill--stood invitingly open. But the door to the private office
beyond was closed, and it was barely five o'clock. She was there; he
felt assured of that. He could hear the busy clicking of the typewriter.
She was probably alone, too. Hitherto he had entered unannounced, but
then the door stood open. Why should he knock now? He would not. He
decided to enter as hitherto, and so, quietly, turned the knob and
pushed.

But the door resisted. Evidently it was latched from within. Twice he
made the trial, noiselessly as possible, and then paused to consider.
This was something new. Miss Wallen had locked herself in, or possibly
had locked him out. If not at her desk, she might easily have seen him
sauntering leisurely up the street, might have seen him cross, and,
divining that his object was to see her and perhaps renew his offensive
talk, have taken prompt measures to resist. Well, even if lettered
"Private Office" on the door, it was a public office in point of fact;
and that public office was not for personal use or benefit he had the
authority, in one sententious form or other, of many an Executive, from
Jefferson down. So Elmendorf rapped, and rapped loudly. The clicking
presently ceased, a light footstep was heard, then the voice of the
official stenographer:

"What is wanted?"

"Open the door, please."

"Whom do you wish to see."

"I desire to speak with Miss Wallen."

"Miss Wallen declines."

"I have business to transact."

"Mr. Wells is not here, and Miss Wallen is not empowered to act for him.
You will have to wait and see him to-morrow."

"Miss Wallen, you are barring me out of an office I have a perfect right
to enter, and that I mean to enter here and now, or make formal
complaint to the trustees. If this door is not opened in twenty seconds
I warn you there will be trouble."

To this remark no answer whatever was vouchsafed. Miss Wallen quietly
returned to her typewriter, and the only sound from within was the
clicking of that ingenious machine. Elmendorf had sense enough not to
shout his news, but he had not sense enough to abandon the attempt to
tell her. There was another way of reaching the sanctum, provided he
moved with promptness and decision. It was through the library itself.
Turning away, muttering angrily, he returned through the darkening
corridor, down the stairs,