his business," sighed Stranleigh, as he paused before the wide entrance, his natural diffidence holding him there, for nothing was so distasteful to him as calling upon a man uninvited, yet some latent font of courage within him always prevented a retreat. He usually buoyed himself up with the false hope that the man he sought would be absent or too busy to see him, and thus he might draw back with a clear conscience. It was now late in the afternoon, and probably the great Brassard had gone home, but in thinking thus he reckoned without the man he was to meet.
A floorwalker approached him promptly with ingratiating manner.
Could you tell me," asked Stranleigh, in a voice of silk, "if Mr. Brassard has gone home yet?"
"Lord love you, sir," cried the floorwalker, startled out of his politeness by so absurd a query, "Mr. Brassard don't go home till ten or eleven at night. He's always the first man here and the last away."
"Ah, in that case would you be good enough to ask him if he could see me for a few moments?"
"Certainly, sir. What name, sir?"
"Stranleigh."
The floorwalker wrote it on a tablet. "L-e-i-g-h or l-e-y?" he asked, looking up.
"L-e-i-g-h."
