“It’s nothing much. Nothing at all. It’s only this. I—I—Joe will be writing a letter to a man called Weston on Thursday—Thursday, remember. There won’t be anything in it—nothing of importance—nothing private—but—I—I want you to mail me a copy of it, Mary. A—a copy of—”
She was looking at him open-eyed. Her face was white and shocked.
“For goodness’ sake,” he said, irritably, “don’t look like that. I’m not asking you to commit murder. What’s the matter with you? Look here, Mary; you’ll admit you owe me something, I suppose? I’m the only man in New York that’s ever done anything for you. Didn’t I get you your job? Well, then, it’s not as if I were asking you to do anything dangerous, or difficult, or—”
She tried to speak, but could not. He went on rapidly. He did not look at her. His eyes wandered past her, shifting restlessly.
“Look here,” he said; “I’ll be square with you. You’re in New York to make money. Well, you aren’t going to make it hammering a typewriter. I’m giving you your chance. I’m going to be square with you. Let me see that letter, and—”
His voice died away abruptly. The expression of his face changed. He smiled, and this time the effort was obvious.
“Halloa, Joe!” he said.
Mary turned. Joe was standing at her side. He looked very large and wholesome and restful.
“I don’t want to intrude,” he said; “but I wanted to see you, Eddy, and I thought I should catch you here. I wrote a letter to Jack Weston yesterday—after I got home from the office—and one to you; and somehow I managed to post them in the wrong envelopes. It doesn’t matter much, because they both said the same thing.”
“The same thing?”
“Yes; I told you I should be writing to you again on Thursday, to tip you something good that I was expecting from old Longwood. Jack Weston has just rung me up on the ’phone to say that he had got a letter that doesn’t belong to him. I explained to him and thought I’d drop in here and explain to you. Why, what’s your hurry, Eddy?”
Eddy had risen from his seat.
“I’m due back at the office,” he said, hoarsely.
“Busy man! I’m having a slack day. Well, good-bye. I’ll see Mary back.”
Joe seated himself in the vacant chair.
“You’re looking tired,” he said. “Did Eddy talk too much?”
“Yes, he did … Joe, you were right.”
“Ah—Mary!” Joe chuckled. “I’ll tell you something I didn’t tell Eddy. It wasn’t entirely through carelessness that I posted those letters in the wrong envelopes. In fact, to be absolutely frank, it wasn’t through carelessness at all. There’s an old gentleman in Pittsburg by the name of John Longwood, who occasionally is good enough to inform me of some of his intended doings on the market a day or so before the rest of the world knows them, and Eddy has always shown a strong desire to get early information too. Do you remember my telling you that your predecessor at the office left a little abruptly? There was a reason. I engaged her as a confidential secretary, and she overdid it. She confided in Eddy. From the look on