Gabriel Samara

Miss Sadie Loyes, the manageress of the Hotel Weltmore Typewriting
and Secretarial Bureau, set down the receiver of the telephone
which had its place upon her desk and studied thoughtfully the
eleven young ladies who comprised her present staff. She stood
there, an angular, untidy-looking person, tapping a pencil against
her teeth, unconscious arbitress, not only of the fate of two very
interesting people, but also of the fate of a great nation.
Portentous events depended upon her decision. A man's life in this
teeming city of New York was a small enough matter of itself. The
life of this prospective client of hers, however, waiting now in
his suite on the eleventh floor for the help which he had summoned,
was hung about with destiny. Meanwhile, Miss Sadie Loyes continued
to tap her teeth with the pencil, and reflect. Which should it be?
The nearest and apparently the most industrious? Her eyes rested
disparagingly upon Miss Bella Fox's golden-brown coiffure. These
were dressy days in New York and style was all very well in its
way, but there was no mistaking the abbreviations of the young
lady's costume--very low from the throat downwards and displaying a
length of limb in a manner which, although perhaps sanctioned by
fashion, paid no excessive tribute to modesty. Miss Fox's
jewellery, too, was a little in evidence, and there were rumours
about dinners at the Ritz! On the whole perhaps it would be better
to keep this particular young lady back for one of these western
millionaires. Dorothy Dickson might do: a young woman of far more
modest appearance, but a little careless with her shorthand.
Possibly it was as well not to risk her on an important assignment.
Then there was Florence White--expert enough, but a little
mysterious in her private life, and the recipient of too many boxes
of candy and offerings of roses from her clients to inspire her
employer with thorough confidence as to her commercial ability.
Then the pencil stopped. Miss Borans! Nothing whatever against
her; efficient, self-contained, reserved alike in dress and
demeanour, but with an air of breeding which none of these others
possessed. Absolutely an obvious choice!

"Miss Borans," the manageress called out, in a shrill tone, "just
step this way, please."

The young lady addressed rose with composure, pushed her chair back
into its place, and approached her employer. Space was limited in
the Hotel Weltmore and the Typewriting and Secretarial Bureau was
really a railed-off portion of the lounge on the first floor
reserved for "Ladies Only."

"I guess you'd better slip up to number eleven hundred and eighty,"
Miss Loyes directed. "I'll send a machine and the rest of the
stuff right along--gentleman there in a hurry--his secretary caught
the fever while he was in Washington. Samara, his name is--the
Good Lord knows where he got it!"

The girl seemed to stiffen.

"Samara, the Russian envoy?" she asked.

"You've got it, honey. Speaks with an English accent, though, you
could cut with a knife."

"I would rather not work for Gabriel Samara," the girl declared.

It took a great deal to surprise Miss Sadie Loyes, but this newest
recruit to her secretarial staff had certainly succeeded.

"How?" she exclaimed. "What's that?"

Miss Borans had not in the least the appearance of a young woman of
mercurial or changeable temperament. Nevertheless, she seemed
already to be repenting her rather rash pronouncement.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Loyes," she said. "That was perhaps a
foolish speech of mine. Number eleven hundred and eighty, you
said. I will go there at once."

"Say, do you know anything of this Mr. Samara?"