myself in a neat little office, comfortably furnished, and not at all murderous or penny-dreadful looking. A polite young clerk, in a blue tie and a jovial face, which he seemed perpetually endeavoring to harmonize with the solemnity of his position, received me.
"Please take my card and this letter to Mr. Rickaby," I said, trying to appear as indifferent as though it were part of the daily routine of my life to consult with private detectives.
Of course I expected to be kept waiting. I ignorantly classed detectives with doctors and lawyers and editors, who are always "very busy just now," or if they are not, they pretend to be for the sake of appearances. I was agreeably surprised when Mr. Rickably said he would see me at once. No, there could be no humbug about that man.
The great Octavius was stout and rubicund—another favorable point with me. No one could have looked less mysterious, and more matter of fact. I believe I half expected to enter his presence with an "open sesame," and to behold two or three imps of darkness skipping about with a
