Buck Ogilvy rose and stretched himself.  “I’ve got my work cut out for me, haven’t I?” he declared with a yawn.  “However, it’ll be a fight worth while, and that at least will make it interesting.  Well?”

Bryce pressed the buzzer on his desk, and a moment later Moira entered.  “Permit me, Moira, to present Mr. Ogilvy.  Mr. Ogilvy, Miss McTavish.”  The introduction having been acknowledged by both parties, Bryce continued:  “Mr. Ogilvy will have frequent need to interview me at this office, Moira, but it is our joint desire that his visits here shall remain a profound secret to everybody with the exception of ourselves.  To that end he will hereafter call at night, when this portion of the town is absolutely deserted.  You have an extra key to the office, Moira.  I wish you would give it to Mr. Ogilvy.”

The girl nodded.  “Mr. Ogilvy will have to take pains to avoid our watchman,” she suggested.

“That is a point well taken, Moira.  Buck, when you call, make it a point to arrive here promptly on the hour.  The watchman will be down in the mill then, punching the time-clock.”

Again Moira inclined her dark head and withdrew.  Mr. Buck Ogilvy groaned.  “God speed the day when you can come out from under and I’ll be permitted to call during office hours,” he murmured.  He picked up his hat and withdrew, via the general office.  Half an hour later, Bryce looked out and saw him draped over the counter, engaged in animated conversation with Moira McTavish.  Before Ogilvy left, he had managed to impress Moira with a sense of the disadvantage under which he laboured through being forced, because of circumstances Mr. Cardigan would doubtless relate to her in due course, to abandon all hope of seeing her at the office—­at least for some time to come.  Then he spoke feelingly of the unmitigated horror of being a stranger in a strange town, forced to sit around hotel lobbies with drummers and other lost souls, and drew from Moira the assurance that it wasn’t more distressing than having to sit around a boardinghouse night after night watching old women tat and tattle.

This was the opening Buck Ogilvy had sparred for.  Fixing Moira with his bright blue eyes, he grinned boldly and said:  “Suppose, Miss McTavish, we start a league for the dispersion of gloom.  You be the president, and I’ll be the financial secretary.”

“How would the league operate?” Moira demanded cautiously.

“Well, it might begin by giving a dinner to all the members, followed by a little motor-trip into the country next Saturday afternoon,” Buck suggested.

Moira’s Madonna glance appraised him steadily.  “I haven’t known you very long, Mr. Ogilvy,” she reminded him.

“Oh, I’m easy to get acquainted with,” he retorted lightly.  “Besides, don’t I come well recommended?” He pondered for a moment.  Then:  “I’ll tell you what, Miss McTavish.  Suppose we put it up to Bryce Cardigan.  If he says it’s all right we’ll pull off the party.  If he says it’s all wrong, I’ll go out and drown myself—­and fairer words than them has no man spoke.”