At last the procession had moved on so far that this girl arrived at the lighted window.  Win’s heart, which had missed a beat in a sudden flurry of fear now and then, began to pound like a hammer.

For the first time she could see the god in the machine, the superintendent of Peter Rolls’s vast store, a kind of prime minister with more power than the king.  She had fancied that he would be old, a man of such importance in a great establishment, a person who had the nickname of Father.  But her anxious gaze, as she carefully kept her distance, told that he was not even middle-aged.  He was, it seemed, a curious mixture of cherub and Mephistopheles in type:  round faced, blue eyed, with smooth cheeks that looked pink even in the cruel electric light.  His hair and brushed-up eyebrows were thin and of a medium brown; but he had a sharply waxed moustache and a little pointed goatee or “imperial” so much darker in colour that they were conspicuous objects.

He was talking to the girl in a high-keyed yet somewhat blustering voice, asking questions which Win could not and did not try to hear.  The answers were given purposely in a low tone, and the girl laid on the counter several papers from a little black bag at her waist.  These the superintendent took up, unfolding them with plump, dimpled fingers, like those of a young woman.

With his bright, glancing blue eyes he skimmed the contents of each paper—­probably references, thought Win—­and then returned them to their owner.

“These are no good,” he pronounced in a louder voice than before.  “And you don’t look strong enough for Christmas work—–­”

Suddenly the red-haired girl darted her head forward, like that of a pecking bird, hastily muttered a few words, and drew back, as if hoping that those not concerned might fail to notice the manoeuvre.

“Oh—­er—­that’s different,” said the superintendent in an odd, uncomfortable tone, with the hint of “bluster” still in it.  Win fancied she heard him add:  “What salary?” In any case, the girl mentioned the sum of eight dollars, and at the same time scribbled something on a printed paper form pushed over the counter.

“Bet that ain’t your line, kid,” there came a murmur round the corner of a velvet bow on Win’s hat.  So faint was the murmur that she might almost have dreamed it; but, if uttered, it must have dropped from heaven or the lion tamer’s lips.

Win was burning with curiosity.  What two or three talismanic words could the red-haired girl have whispered so quietly, so secretively, to change in a second the superintendent’s decision?  It was almost like freemasonry.  You whispered to the hangman, and he, realizing that you were a member, took the noose off your neck!

Alas, if Father refused her services, as he almost surely would, she had no such magic charm to make him change his mind!  There was certainly a mystery, a secret password that did the trick; but the lion tamer, though a newcomer in this business like herself, appeared to know or guess, and bet that it “wasn’t in her line.”