indictiveness in his voice.

"Yes, I have," she answered slowly, and I could have laughed aloud at his
crestfallen visage. "I remember my father giving me a dollar once, when
I was a little girl, for remaining absolutely quiet for five minutes."

He smiled indulgently.

"But that was long ago," she continued. "And you would scarcely demand a
little girl of nine to earn her own living."

"At present, however," she said, after another slight pause, "I earn
about eighteen hundred dollars a year."

With one accord, all eyes left the plates and settled on her. A woman
who earned eighteen hundred dollars a year was worth looking at. Wolf
Larsen was undisguised in his admiration.

"Salary, or piece-work?" he asked.

"Piece-work," she answered promptly.

"Eighteen hundred," he calculated. "That's a hundred and fifty dollars a
month. Well, Miss Brewster, there is nothing small about the _Ghost_.
Consider yourself on salary during the time you remain with us."

She made no acknowledgment. She was too unused as yet to the whims of
the man to accept them with equanimity.

"I forgot to inquire," he went on suavely, "as to the nature of your
occupation. What commodities do you turn out? What tools and materials
do you require?"

"Paper and ink," she laughed. "And, oh! also a typewriter."

"You are Maud Brewster," I said slowly and with certainty, almost as
though I were charging her with a crime.

Her eyes lifted curiously to mine. "How do you know?"

"Aren't you?" I demanded.

She acknowledged her identity with a nod. It was Wolf Larsen's turn to
be puzzled. The name and its magic signified nothing to him. I was
proud that it did mean something to me, and for the first time in a weary
while I was convincingly conscious of a superiority over him.

"I remember writing a review of a thin little volume--" I had begun
carelessly, when she interrupted me.

"You!" she cried. "You are--"

She was now staring at me in wide-eyed wonder.

I nodded my identity, in turn.

"Humphrey Van Weyden," she concluded; then added with a sigh of relief,
and unaware that she had glanced that relief at Wolf Larsen, "I am so
glad."

"I remember the review," she went on hastily, becoming aware of the
awkwardness of her remark; "that too, too flattering review."

"Not at all," I denied valiantly. "You impeach my sober judgment and
make my canons of little worth. Besides, all my brother critics were
with me. Didn't L