Chapter Eight

Tris.

The two men emerged from the office, and Tris darted a quick look at Tony's shuttered face. It told her nothing. When they had gone she stared unseeingly at her typewriter, ignoring the over flowing "in" tray, her mind racing frantically in circles as she tried to think of a way of ensuring that she need never set eyes on Tony Blake again.

There wasn't one, of course. Not unless she gave up her job, and that was impossible. In a more buoyant economic climate she might have done so, even if it meant taking a drop in salary, but to take the risk in the middle of a depression would be extremely foolhardy.

She needed her salary. Every penny of it. She closed her eyes, shivering suddenly with cold. The office door opened and she jerked upright, her face paper-white, but it was only Matt Dyson, one of the sub editors. It was the joke of the Globe that while Tris gave every other male the cold shoulder, Matt Dyson, the original worm who never turned, was her only male escort.

"Is so