There was a light in the office.  Bannon stepped into the doorway, and, with a suppressed word of impatience, stood looking at the scene within.  The desk that Peterson had supplied for the use of his clerk was breast-high from the floor, built against the wall, with a high stool before it.  The wall lamp had been taken down; now it stood with its reflector on the top of the desk, which was covered with books and papers.  A girl was sitting on the stool, bending over a ledger and rapidly footing up columns.  Bannon could not see her face, for a young fellow stood leaning over the railing by the desk, his back to the door.  He had just said something, and now he was laughing in a conscious manner.

Bannon quietly stepped to one side.  The girl looked up for a moment and brushed her hair back from her face.  The fellow spoke again in a low tone, but beyond a slight compressing of her lips she did not seem to hear him.  Without a word, Bannon came forward, took him by the arm, and led him out of the door.  Still holding his arm, he took a step back, and (they stood in the outer circle of the electric light) looked him over.

“Let’s see,” he said, “you’re the man that was clerking here.”

There was no reply.  “And your name’s—­what?”

“Briggs.”

“Well, Mr. Briggs, did you get a message from me?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said the young man, his eyes on the ground.  “Max, he come around, but I wanted to wait and see you.  He’s a mean cuss—­”

“You see me now, don’t you?”

“Yes.”  The reply was indistinct.

“You keep out of the office after this.  If I catch you in there again, I won’t stop to talk.  Now, clear out.”

Briggs walked a little way, then turned.  “Maybe you think you can lay me off without notice—­but you’ll wish—­”

Bannon turned back to the office, giving no heed to Briggs’ last words:  “I’ve got you fixed already.”  He was thinking of the girl there on the stool.  She did not look like the girl he had expected to see.  To be sure her hair was red, but it was not of the red that outcropped from Max’s big head; it was of a dark, rich color, and it had caught the light from the lamp with such a shine as there is in new red gold.  When he entered, she was again footing columns.  She was slender, and her hand, where it supported her forehead was white.  Again Bannon stood motionless, slowly shaking his head.  Then he came forward.  She heard his step and looked up, as if to answer a question, letting her eyes rest on his face.  He hesitated, and she quietly asked:—­

“What is it, please?”

“Miss Vogel?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Mr. Bannon.  There wasn’t any need of your working tonight.  I’m just keeping the men on so we can get in this cribbing.  When did you come?”

“My brother telephoned to me.  I wanted to look things over before starting in tomorrow.”

“How do you find it?”