asked my business, with a
look that plainly told me that unless I wanted two or three gross of
account-books I had no right to be there. I told him that I wished to
see Mr. Grewter, and asked if that gentleman was to be seen.

The clerk said he did not know; but his tone implied that, in his
opinion, I could _not_ see Mr. Grewter.

"Perhaps you could go and ask," I suggested.

"Well, yes. Is it old or young Mr. Grewter you want to see?"

"Old Mr. Grewter," I replied.

"Very well, I'll go and see. You'd better send in your card, though."

I produced one of George Sheldon's cards, which the clerk looked at. He
gave a little start as if an adder had stung him.

"You're not Mr. Sheldon?" he said.

"No; Mr. Sheldon is my employer."

"What do you go about giving people Sheldon's card for?" asked the
clerk, with quite an aggrieved air. "I know Sheldon of Gray's Inn."

"Then I'm sure you've found him a very accommodating gentleman," I
replied, politely.

"Deuce take his accommodation! He nearly accommodated me into the
Bankruptcy Court. And so you're Sheldon's clerk, and you want the
governor. But you don't mean to say that Grewter and Grewter are--"

This was said in an awe-stricken undertone. I hastened to reassure the
stationer's clerk.

"I don't think Mr. Sheldon ever saw Mr. Grewter in his life," I said.

After this the clerk condescended to retire into the unknown antres
behind the shop, to deliver my message. I began to think that George
Sheldon's card was not the best possible letter of introduction.

The clerk returned presently, followed by a tall, white-bearded man,
with a bent figure, and a pair of penetrating gray eyes--a very
promising specimen of the octogenarian.

He asked me my business in a sharp suspicious way, that obliged me to
state the nature of my errand without circumlocution. As I got farther
away from the Rev. John Haygarth, intestate, I was less fettered by the
necessity of secrecy. I informed my octogenarian that I was prosecuting
a legal investigation connected with a late inhabitant of that street,
and that I had taken the liberty to apply to him, in the hope that he
might be able to afford me some information.

He looked at me all the time I spoke as if he thought I was going to
entreat pecuniary relief--and I daresay I have something the air of a
begging-letter writer. But when he found that I only wanted
information, his hard gray eyes softened ever so little, and he asked