It
was now very near the closing hour. The waxy-faced youth, a secretary
of Mr. Croft's, minced to the shrine door, opened it, spoke, returned,
and announced that Miss Child was to go in. He even held the door for
her, which might be a sign of respect, or of compassion for one about
to be executed. Then, as the girl stepped in, the door closed behind
her, and she stood in an expensively hideous room, looking at a
little, dried-up dark man who sat in Mr. Croft's chair at Mr. Croft's
desk. But he was not Mr. Croft. He was Peter Rolls, Sr.
Win recognized him instantly and knew not what to think. Luckily he
did not keep her long in suspense.
"You Miss Child?" he shortly inquired, holding her with a steady
stare, which from a younger man would have been offensive.
"I am, sir," she said in the low, sweet voice that Peter junior loved.
Even Peter senior was impressed with it in spite of himself, impressed
with the whole personality of the young woman whom Petro had said was
"made to be a princess." She looked a more difficult proposition than
he had expected to tackle.
"Know who I am?" he continued his catechism.
"You are Mr. Rolls.
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