“The minute he came out of his burrow and started uptown,” said Bubbles, “and was out o’ sight, I begun to spin my top up and down Marrow Lane.  Rose she’s moved upstairs, like she said she would.”

Harry’s eyes sparkled with interest and approbation.  “Good girl!” he said.

“I seen her,” Bubbles went on, “at an upper window, and when she seed me, she winked both eyes, like as if the sun was too bright for ’em.  I winked the same way, and then she lets the paper drop.”

Harry took the paper out of the boy’s hand, and read:  “Nothing done, much doing.”

“She’s a grand one,” said Bubbles.  “If he ever gets wise to her, he’ll tear her to pieces.”

“I’m not worrying about Rose—­yet,” said Harry.  “She knows what she’s up against, and she can pull a gun quicker than I can.  We used to play getting the drop on each other by the hour.”

“What for?” asked Bubbles, always interested in the smallest details of sporting propositions.

“Poker-chips,” said Harry, and Bubbles looked his disgust.  There was a minute’s silence, then: 

“Harry,” said Bubbles, “what do you think he’s up to?”

“By George,” said Harry, “I can’t make out.  What do you think?”

Bubbles’s sensitive mouth quivered eagerly.  “You tell me,” he said, “what he’s making hats for—­he don’t sell ’em—­and I’ll tell you what he’s up to.”

“Some of the labor leaders in the West are mixed up in it,” said Harry; “we know that.”

“Labor leaders, Harry!” The small boy’s face was comic with scorn and facetiousness.

“You know the ones I mean, Bub.  Not the men who lead labor—­that’s only what they call themselves; but the men who betray labor for their own pockets, the men who find dynamite for half-witted fanatics to set off.  The men—­” He broke short off, and listened.  “Better butt in to the studio, Bub, and see what’s doing,”

“Did you think you heard something?”

“I know that I haven’t heard anything for half an hour.”

In a few minutes Bubbles returned.  “He’s just sitting there with a hell of a face on him,” he said, “and she’s working like a dynamo.”

And although Barbara actually was working with great speed and gratitude, the entrance of the small boy had seemed to disturb the train of her inspiration.  Somewhere in the back of her head appeared to be some brain-cells quite detached from the important matter in hand, and to these was conveyed the fact that a door-knob had been turned, and at once they began to busy themselves upon the suggestion.  Something like this:  door-knobs—­old door-knobs—­new glass door-knobs—­man to put on new glass door-knobs—­wonderfully prepossessing man—­name Harry—­charming name.  Harry—­charming smile—­wonder if anybody’ll ever see him again.

Gradually other cells in Barbara’s brain took up the business, until presently she was entirely occupied with unasked, and unwelcome, and altogether pleasant thoughts of the young secret-service agent.  It was almost as if he laid his hand on her shoulder, and said:  “You’ve worked long enough on this dreadful beggar—­come with me for a holiday.”