The adventure lost some of its thrill with no one to share it. Judyhadn’t an idea in the world how to find the fourth floor as she couldsee no stairway and no elevator.
Taking a chance, she opened one of several doors. It opened into acloset where cleaning supplies were kept. Judy glanced at the dustyfloor and wondered if anybody ever used them.
This was fun! She tried another door and found it locked. But the thirddoor opened into a long hall at the end of which was the stairway.
“A regular labyrinth, this place,” she thought as she climbed. “Iwonder if Emily Grimshaw will be as queer as her hotel.”
There were old-fashioned knockers on all the doors, and Judy noticedthat no two of them were alike. Emily Grimshaw had her name on theglass door of her suite, and the knocker was in the shape of a witchhunched over a steaming caldron. Judy lifted it and waited.
“Who’s there?” called a mannish voice from within.
“Judy Bolton. They told me at the desk that you would see me.”
“Come on in, then. Don’t stand there banging the knocker.”
“I beg your pardon,” Judy said meekly as she entered. “I didn’t quiteunderstand.”
“It’s all right. Who sent you?”
“Nobody. I came myself. I found your name in the classified directory.”
“Oh, I see. Another beginner.”
Emily Grimshaw sat back in her swivel chair and scrutinized Judy. Shewas a large woman dressed in a severely plain brown cloth dress withsensible brown shoes to match. Her iron-gray hair was knotted at theback of her head. In fact, the only mark of distinction about her wholeperson was the pair of glasses perched on the high bridge of her noseand the wide, black ribbon suspended from them. Although an old woman,her face was not wrinkled. What few lines she had were deep furrowsthat looked as if they belonged there. Judy could imagine EmilyGrimshaw as a middle-aged woman but never as a girl.
The room was, by no means, a typical office. If it had not been for themassive desk littered with papers and the swivel chair it would nothave looked like an office at all. Three of the four walls were linedwith bookshelves.
“Is this where you do all your work?” Judy asked.
“And why not? It’s a good enough place.”
“Of course,” Judy explained herself quickly. “But I supposed you wouldhave girls working for you. It must keep you busy doing all thisyourself.”
“Hmm! It does. I like to be busy.”
Judy took a deep breath. How, she wondered, was she to put herproposition before this queer old woman without seeming impudent. Itwas the first time in her life she had ever offered her services toanyone except her father.
“You use a typewriter,” she began.
“Look here, young woman,” Emily Grimshaw turned on her suddenly, “ifyou’re a writer, say so. And if you’ve come here looking for aposition——”
“That’s it exactly,” Judy interrupted. “I’m sure I could be of someservice to you.”
“What?”
“I might typewrite letters for you.”
“I do that myself. Haven’t the patience to dictate them.”
“Perhaps I could help you read and correct manuscripts,” Judy suggestedhopefully.
The agent seemed insulted. “Humph!” she grunted. “Much you know aboutmanuscripts!”
“I may know more than you think,” Judy came back at her. It was hard tobe patient with this irritable old lady. Certainly she would never havechosen such an employer if it had not been for the possibility ofmeeting Dale Meredith again. Irene had taken such a fancy to him.
“Lucky she doesn’t know that,” thought Judy as she watched her fumblingthrough a stack of papers on her desk. Finally she produced a closelywritten page of note paper and handed it to the puzzled girl.
“If you know so much about manuscripts,” she charged. “What would youdo with a page like that?”
Half hoping that the handwriting was Dale Meredith’s, Judy reached outan eager hand. The agent was watching her like a cat and, as she read,a hush settled over the room. Emily Grimshaw was putting Judy to a test.