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 himself almost, a feeling of resentment against Fay for that failure was taking substance in his breast. She was still sleeping calmly as he left his home feeling neglected, forlorn, and slightly touched with self-pity.

News! News of the campaign was what he thirsted for. There should already be a stack of telegrams on his desk from the eastern agencies—from them first because of an hour of difference in time. But the office had an empty look. Round him one sweeping glance through the glass partitions revealed only unoccupied desks. In irritation and amazement, the president of Judson-Morris looked at his watch; and then he understood. The time was but half-past seven. His anxiety had got him here ahead of all the staff. Naturally, therefore, there were no telegrams awaiting him.

But very soon he became aware that the offices were coming to life around him; doors opened and closed; stenographers, clerks, accountants, principals, began to arrive; roll tops shot up, drawers were opened, and filing cases. This showed to the lonely watcher that like himself others were anxious and eager and slipping in ahead of time; he was grateful for their solicitude. Blakeley appeared, looking abashed to find his employer down before him, and a few minutes later telegrams, unenveloped, just as they came from the factory wire, began settling