She smiled prettily. “I’m hoping to use your telephone. There’s bad weather coming, and the line to use the one in the basement is atrocious, with people calling to cancel plans. I need to call my older brother. Please?”

He gestured to the telephone and took a bite of his sandwich. Caroline stepped forward and picked up the receiver but made no move to initiate the call.

“It’s a private conversation.”

At least she had the grace to look embarrassed. He glared while he finished chewing, then drained half the milk and plunked the glass down with a thud. He picked up his sandwich to carry it outside.

“Make it quick,” he said as he headed into the hall. Caroline flashed him a grateful smile and closed the door behind him.

He probably ought to leave, but he was in no mood for it, so he quickly set his plate on the floor, then leaned in to eavesdrop. Caroline was lying about her reason for wanting the privacy of his office. He could tell by the way she tried to keep smiling while she talked. A dead giveaway.

The telephone connection was patched through, but it didn’t sound like she was talking to her brother. It sounded like . . . a bill collector? All his senses went on alert. Tension was coiled in her voice as she asked for more time to come up with the funds. He leaned in closer and held his breath to catch her end of the conversation.

“All I need is two more months,” she said. “Repossessing the equipment won’t do either of us any good.”

Was Caroline in some sort of financial difficulty? He pressed his ear to the door, eyes widening in surprise as details of the debt emerged.

“What are you going to do with thirty used typewriters?” she asked. “I’ll pay the interest on the loan, but you’ll have to wait for the balance. Give me until February, and I’ll pay you in full.”

There was another long pause while the bill collector talked, then Caroline answered, her voice quieter this time. It sounded like there was progress on negotiating a payment scheme.

Then the door yanked open, and he reared back a step.

“Eavesdropping!” Caroline gasped.

“You just stepped on my sandwich.”

She kicked the plate across the hall, where it cracked against the molding. “How dare you. That was a private conversation.”

“That you chose to have in my office when you already know I’m suspicious of you. I wouldn’t be doing my job if I ignored it. Who do you owe money to? And why?”

She looked at him with a mutinous expression. “I don’t owe money to anyone. But there’s a school for immigrant women on the verge of going under, and I’m trying to intervene.”

“That’s who has the thirty typewriters?”