The adventure lost some of its thrill with no one to share it. Judy hadn’t an idea in the world how to find the fourth floor as she could see no stairway and no elevator.

Taking a chance, she opened one of several doors. It opened into a closet where cleaning supplies were kept. Judy glanced at the dusty floor and wondered if anybody ever used them.

This was fun! She tried another door and found it locked. But the third door opened into a long hall at the end of which was the stairway.

“A regular labyrinth, this place,” she thought as she climbed. “I wonder if Emily Grimshaw will be as queer as her hotel.”

There were old-fashioned knockers on all the doors, and Judy noticed that no two of them were alike. Emily Grimshaw had her name on the glass door of her suite, and the knocker was in the shape of a witch hunched 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 quite understand.”

“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. She was a large woman dressed in a severely plain brown cloth dress with sensible brown shoes to match. Her iron-gray hair was knotted at the back of her head. In fact, the only mark of distinction about her whole person was the pair of glasses perched on the high bridge of her nose and the wide, black ribbon suspended from them. Although an old woman, her face was not wrinkled. What few lines she had were deep furrows that looked as if they belonged there. Judy could imagine Emily Grimshaw 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 the massive desk littered with papers and the swivel chair it would not have looked like an office at all. Three of the four walls were lined with 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 would have girls working for you. It must keep you busy doing all this yourself.”

“Hmm! It does. I like to be busy.”

Judy took a deep breath. How, she wondered, was she to put her proposition before this queer old woman without seeming impudent. It was the first time in her life she had ever offered her services to anyone except her father.

“You use a typewriter,” she began.

“Look here, young woman,” Emily Grimshaw turned on her suddenly, “if you’re a writer, say so. And if you’ve come here looking for a position——”

“That’s it exactly,” Judy interrupted. “I’m sure I could be of some service 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 suggested hopefully.

The agent seemed insulted. “Humph!” she grunted. “Much you know about manuscripts!”

“I may know more than you think,” Judy came back at her. It was hard to be patient with this irritable old lady. Certainly she would never have chosen such an employer if it had not been for the possibility of meeting Dale Meredith again. Irene had taken such a fancy to him.

“Lucky she doesn’t know that,” thought Judy as she watched her fumbling through a stack of papers on her desk. Finally she produced a closely written page of note paper and handed it to the puzzled girl.

“If you know so much about manuscripts,” she charged. “What would you do with a page like that?”

Half hoping that the handwriting was Dale Meredith’s, Judy reached out an 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.