'And if you should hear of any sort of situation that I----'
At that he grabbed my hand again, and pulled me back into the room.
'Of course, of course! God bless my soul, I'd clean forgotten!' he exclaimed hurriedly as he strode across to his table and rang a bell.
'Ask Mr. John to kindly step this way a minute, will ye?' he said to the lad who answered the bell. 'Forget me name next, I suppose,' he added to me in a confidential undertone. 'Tut, tut! And I read Perkins's letter again just before you came in, too! Ah, here you are, John. Come in a minute, will you?'
A vigorous-looking fair-haired man of about five-and-thirty came into the room now, with the air of one who had been interrupted. He wore no coat, and his spotless shirt-sleeves were held well up on his arms by things like garters clasped above the elbow.
'Ah, John,' began his father, 'this is Mr. Perkins's "Nickperry"; you remember? Nick Freydon.' He referred to a letter on the table. 'Shorthand, you know, and all that. Well, what about it? D'jew remember?'
'Yes, yes, to be sure. Well, what about it?' This seemed to be a favourite phrase between father and son.
'Well, what was it you said? Thirty-five bob for a start, eh? Oh, well, you'll see to it, anyway, won't you? That's right. So long--er--Nickperry!'
'Good-morning, sir!'
And with that I found myself following Mr. John along a darkish passage to a well-lighted apartment, divided by a ground-glass partition from an office in which I saw perhaps eight or ten clerks at work.