and there's a meter ticking somewhere, I'm sure. And now—Mr. Minot—"
"I know. You mean the thirty-five dollars I paid our driver. I wish you would write me a check. I've a reason."
"Thank you. I wanted to—so much. I'll bring it to you soon."
She was gone, and Minot sat staring into the palms, his lips firm, his hands gripping the arms of his chair. Suddenly, with a determined leap, he was on his feet.
A moment later he stood at the telegraph counter in the lobby, writing in bold flowing characters a message for Mr. John Thacker, on a certain seventeenth floor, New York.
"I resign. Will stay on the job until a substitute arrives, but start him when you get this.
The telegram sent, he returned to his veranda chair to think. Thacker would be upset, of course. But after all, Thacker's claim on him was not such that he must wreck his life's happiness to serve him. Even Thacker must see that. And
