chair, was shaking. So, too, was his voice.

"Fanny, Katherine's not here."

Fanny still looked up at him, wordlessly.

"Katherine left here yesterday. She's in town." Then, at the look in
her face, "She was here when I telephoned you yesterday. Late yesterday
afternoon she had one of her fantastic notions. She insisted that she
must go into town. It was too cold for her here. Too damp. Too--well,
she went. And I let her go. And I didn't telephone you again. I wanted
you to come."

Fanny Brandeis, knowing him, must have felt a great qualm of terror
and helplessness. But she was angry, too, a wholesome ingredient in a
situation such as this. The thing she said and did now was inspired. She
laughed--a little uncertainly, it is true--but still she laughed. And
she said, in a matter-of-fact tone:

"Well, I must say that's a rather shabby trick. Still, I suppose the
tired business man has got to have his little melodrama. What do I do?
H'm? Beat my breast and howl? Or pound on the door panel?"

Fenger stood looking at her. "Don't laugh at me, Fanny."

She stood up, still smiling. It was rather a brilliant piece of work.
Fenger, taken out of himself though he was, still was artist enough to
appreciate it.

"Why not laugh," she said, "if I'm amused? And I am. Come now, Mr.
Fenger. Be serious. And let's get back to the billions. I want to catch
the five-fifteen."

"I AM serious." "Well, if you expect me to play the hunted heroine,
I'm sorry." She pointed an accusing finger at him. "I know now. You're
quitting Haynes-Cooper for the movies. And this is a rehearsal for a
vampire film."

"You nervy little devil, you!" He reached out with one great,
irresistible hand and gripped her shoulder. "You wonderful, glorious
girl!" The hand that gripped her shoulder swung her to him. She saw his
face with veins she had never noticed before standing out, in knots,
on his temples, and his eyes were fixed and queer. And he was talking,
rather incoherently, and rapidly. He was saying the same thing over and
over again: "I'm crazy about you. I've been looking for a woman like
you--all my life. I'm crazy about you. I'm crazy----"

And then Fanny's fine composure and self control fled, and she thought
of her mother. She began to struggle, too, and to say, like any other
girl, "Let me go! Let me go! You're hurting me. Let me go! You! You!"

And then, quite clearly, from that part of her brain where it had been
tucked away until she