V. Ill-StarredOne afternoon Mme. Storey and I were in our sitting-room decoding wireless messages that had been received, and coding the replies. It had been impossible to cut off the business in New York with one stroke. Latham Rowe had been left in charge of the office, and we were in communication with him every day. I helped Mme. Storey to prepare many of the messages, but not all of them.
We were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Celia Dare. She ran in, flung her arms around Mme. Storey, and buried a hot face in her neck. The girl was as natural and spontaneous as a flower, and a great friendship had sprung up between her and my employer.
Mme. Storey held her off, trying to see into her face. “What’s the matter?” she asked.
Celia obstinately kept her head down. The red and
