"That is what I have been approaching for seven minutes."
"Don't you always find it an unnecessary waste of time not to be
direct?"
He sat, slightly frowning, impatiently fingering the pages of his book.
The hit bounded off him like a rubber ball thrown against the Great Wall
of China.
"Well?" he demanded. "What have you to propose?"
The agent sat down in a chair across the table, William Klinker's chair,
and rested her chin upon her shapely little hand. The other shapely
little hand toyed with the crisp twenty dollar bill, employing it to
trace geometric designs upon the colored table-cloth. Mr. Queed had
occasion to consult his watch again before she raised her head.
"I propose," she said, "that you apply for some special editorial work
on the _Post_."
"The _Post_? The _Post_? The morning newspaper here?"
"One of them."
He laughed, actually laughed. It was a curious, slow laugh, betraying
that the muscles which accomplished it were flabby for want of exercise.
"And who writes the editorials on the _Post_ now?"
"A gentleman named Colonel Cowles--"
"Ah! His articles on taxation read as if they might have been written by
a military man.
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