things
happened to us daily. 'Miss Petheridge undertakes the shorthand
department,' I said, with decision. 'I am the typewriting from
dictation. Miss Petheridge, forward!'

Elsie rose to it like an angel. 'A hundred,' she answered, confronting
him.

The old gentleman bowed again. 'And your terms?' he inquired, in a
honey-tongued voice. 'If I may venture to ask them.'

We handed him our printed tariff. He seemed satisfied.

'Could you spare me an hour this morning?' he asked, still fingering his
hat nervously with his puffy hand. 'But perhaps you are engaged. I fear
I intrude upon you.'

'Not at all,' I answered, consulting an imaginary engagement list. 'This
work can wait. Let me see: 11.30. Elsie, I think you have nothing to do
before one, that cannot be put off? Quite so!--very well, then; yes, we
are both at your service.'

The Urbane Old Gentleman looked about him for a seat. I pushed him our
one easy chair. He withdrew his gloves with great deliberation, and sat
down in it with an apologetic glance. I could gather from his dress and
his diamond pin that he was wealthy. Indeed, I half guessed who he was
already. There was a fussiness about his manner which seemed strangely
familiar to me.

He sat down by slow degrees, edging himself about till he was thoroughly
comfortable. I could see he was of the kind that will have comfort. He
took out his notes and a packet of letters, which he sorted slowly. Then
he looked hard at me and at Elsie. He seemed to be making his choice
between us. After a time he spoke. 'I _think_,' he said, in a most
leisurely voice, 'I will not trouble your friend to write shorthand for
me, after all. Or should I say your assistant? Excuse my change of plan.
I will content myself with dictation. You can follow on the machine?'

'As fast as you choose to dictate to me.'

He glanced at his notes and began a letter. It was a curious
communication. It seemed to be all about buying Bertha and selling
Clara--a cold-blooded proceeding which almost suggested slave-dealing. I
gathered he was giving instructions to his agent: could he have business
relations with Cuba, I wondered. But there were also hints of mysterious
middies--brave British tars to the rescue, possibly! Perhaps my
bewilderment showed itself upon my face, for at last he looked queerly
at me. 'You don't quite like this, I'm afraid,' he said, breaking off
short.

I was the soul of business. 'Not at all,' I answered. 'I am an
a