Unbar the bolt--have pity on my tears!
The discerning reader will spot the glittering falchion of malice
lurking in the initial letters. Read them downward, they convey: _o my
how I hate you!_ Lester had but to convey this poisoned comfit to his
chief: then, playing upon the artless Pearl, persuade her to show it to
him--point out the murderous duplicity of the love token; and she would
recoil into his arms. Greenwich Village would sound the timbrel of joy,
and even the _Oblique_ might find a softer-hearted papyrus vendor.
_Vos plaudite!_ With such thoughts, amid the wailing matin song of
boarding-house steam pipes, our hero fell into a brief slumber.
That morning Lester hastened to the office. He waited feverishly until
the hour when the chief usually arrived, then visited the private
office. There he found the vice-president going over the morning mail.
“Is--is Mr. Arundel in?” he stammered.
“Mr. Arundel isn't here to-day,” said the vicepresident. “He will be
away two weeks.”
Lester retired queasily, and hurried to the corner sacred to Miss
Denver. Here he found one of the other stenographers using Pearl's
machine.
“Where's Miss Denver?” he asked.
The young lady, of humorous turn, looked at her wrist watch. “Getting
ready to go over the top,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Haven't you heard? She marries the boss this morning.”