'phone here and you beat it around the corner to the other one. You'll lick him by three minutes even if I have to stall his call. But neither of you need worry as a matter of fact. Nothing ain't going to break out of this meeting that they'll spill to you boys. It's very confidential stuff."
The thin reporter thanked her and sat back in his chair.
The outer door opened and a tall, almost too well dressed young man with a dark moustache and a saturnine face strode briskly in. Without a glance at the three occupants of the outer office he hurried to the door marked "Private" and disappeared inside.
"Say," said the fat reporter to the telephone girl with sudden interest. "Wasn't that Steven Carter?"
"Yeh," said Miss O'Malley. "What of it?"
"Well, there's going to be something doing at this meeting after all, then. They never send for Carter unless there's important stuff in the wind—and probably it's phoney."
"Yeh, maybe they're going to drain the Hudson River and run a subway line through it, hey?" gibed Miss O'Malley not very good-naturedly.
The fat reporter seemed about to make an angry retort but thought better of it and was silent.
The entrance of Steven Carter created a stir on the inner and more secretive side of the door marked "Private." Around the long mahogany table the gray-haired, impressive looking directors of the destinies of the great Inter-City rapid transit lines
