Witherspoon and Brooks called at Henry’s office.  “You may publish the fact that I have offered fifty thousand dollars reward for Kittymunks,” said Brooks, speaking to Henry, but looking into the room where Miss Drury was at work.

“That ought to be a great stimulus,” Henry replied, “but it doesn’t appear to me that there has been any lack of effort.”

“No,” said Witherspoon; “but the prospect of fifty thousand dollars will make a strong effort stronger.”

“By the way,” Henry remarked, “this is the first time you have visited me in my work-room.”

Witherspoon replied:  “Yes, that’s so; and it strikes me that you might get more comfortable quarters.”

“Comfortable enough for a workshop,” Henry rejoined.

“Yes, I presume so.  Are you ready, Brooks?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We have just come from police headquarters,” said Witherspoon, “and thought that we would stop and tell you of the increased reward.  You were late at dinner yesterday.  Will you be on time this evening?”

“Yes, I think so.”

When they were gone, Henry went into Miss Drury’s room.  “Was that your father?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“And he scolded you for being late yesterday.  If he had suspected that I was the cause, I suppose he would have come in and stormed at me.”

“You were not the cause.”

“Yes, you were helping me with my work.”

“It was my work, too.”  He tilted a pile of newspapers off a chair, sat down and said:  “I feel at home with you.”

“Oh, am I so homely?” she asked, smiling.

“Yes, restoring the word to its best meaning.  By the way, you haven’t cut off your hair.”

“No, I forgot it, but I’m going to.”

“My sister Ellen has hair something like yours, but not so heavy and not so bright.”

“I should like to see her.”

“Because she has hair like yours?”

“What a question!  No, because I am acquainted with her brother, of course.”

“And when you become acquainted with a man do you want to meet his sister?”

“Oh, you are getting to be a regular tease, Mr. Witherspoon.  After awhile I shall be afraid to talk to you.”

“I hope the clock will refuse to record that time.  You say that you would like to see my sister.  You shall see her; you must come home to dinner with me.”

She gave him a quick look, a mere glance, the shortest sentence within the range of human expression, but in that short sentence a full book of meaning.  One moment she was nothing but a resentment; but when she looked up again the light in her eyes had been softened by that half-sarcastic pity which a well-bred woman feels for the ignorance of man.

“Your sister has not called on me,” she said.

He replied:  “I beg your pardon for overlooking the ceremonious flirtation which women insist shall be indulged in, for I assure you that their ways are sometimes a mystery to me; but I admit that the commonest sort of sense should have kept me from falling into this error.  My sister shall call on you.”