To that end he will hereafter call at night, when this
portion of the town is absolutely deserted. You have an extra key to
the office, Moira. I wish you would give it to Mr. Ogilvy."
The girl nodded. "Mr. Ogilvy will have to take pains to avoid our
watchman," she suggested.
"That is a point well taken, Moira. Buck, when you call, make it a
point to arrive here promptly on the hour. The watchman will be down
in the mill then, punching the time-clock."
Again Moira inclined her dark head and withdrew. Mr. Buck Ogilvy
groaned. "God speed the day when you can come out from under and I'll
be permitted to call during office hours," he murmured. He picked up
his hat and withdrew, via the general office. Half an hour later,
Bryce looked out and saw him draped over the counter, engaged in
animated conversation with Moira McTavish. Before Ogilvy left, he had
managed to impress Moira with a sense of the disadvantage under which
he laboured through being forced, because of circumstances Mr.
Cardigan would doubtless relate to her in due course, to abandon all
hope of seeing her at the office--at least for some time to come.
Then he spoke feelingly of the unmitigated horror of being a stranger
in a strange town, forced to sit around hotel lobbies with drummers
and other lost souls, and drew from Moira the assurance that it
wasn't more distressing than having to sit around a boardinghouse
night after night watching old women tat and tattle.
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