If such a thing in connexion with him had been possible they would have declared that he was in a towering rage. She waited a few minutes, then greeted the burly doorman who stood as the building’s lone sentry. Spurlock had found the typewriter, oiled and cleaned it, and began to practise on it in the night. “Not home yet, miss,” the young man replied. There’s no logic in these things. There sprang from that a vague hope that perhaps she might extort a capitulation from her father by a threat to seek that position, and then with overwhelming clearness it came to her that whatever happened she would never be able to tell her father about her debt. He fell backwards on his butt, the wind knocked out of him.
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