The two men were half way up the stairs when Harry set foot on the first step. Up he sped, so quietly that they did not hear him. At least, they did not turn around. He was only three steps behind them as they reached the first floor. To his intense chagrin they stopped short at the head of the stairs. There was nothing left for Harry to do but pass them. Mr. Farley cast a sleepy glance at the boy, but did not speak. He invariably treated the lad as though he were a part of the department furnishings. The slender, dark man paid no attention to him whatever.
“How can I hear his voice if I can’t get near enough to him to hear it?” was Harry’s disgusted reflection. “I’ve got to hear it, but how can I manage to?”
From behind a concealing screen of books some distance from the stairway, Harry peered at the two men. Acting on a flash of impulse, he suddenly walked boldly toward them. He had happened to recall that there was to be a sale of sets, too, along with the miscellaneous books.
“Do you want me to help you with your sets, Mr. Farley?” At the sound of the boyish voice the men at the stairway whirled about. They had turned their backs to the book department and had not heard his almost noiseless approach.
“When I do, I’ll let you know,” frowned Mr. Farley. His sleepy eyes awoke and gleamed angrily at the interruption. The Frenchman glowered reprovingly at the lad. “Go away, boy,” he rebuked. “Why haf you interropted os?”
“I beg your pardon.” There was a mocking inflection in Harry’s tone. Then he obediently removed his undesired presence to the other end of the department. He was quite ready to go for he had attained his object. The dark man had spoken, and in the voice was the inflection he had reason to remember.
“It’s the same voice,” he breathed half aloud. “Now that I know, I suppose I’d better tell Mr. Rexford about it, and let him see to it. He’ll believe me, but if I told somebody else he might not. Well, I’ve found out what I wanted to, so now I’ll get to work as fast as I can. It’s after six and I have to be out of here by eight o’clock.”
“Here, Harry,” directed a pleasant voice. “I need you.” It was Mr. Denby, the man who had charge of the new fiction, who called out. “This table is to be cleared and those books put on it.”
“All right, sir.” Harry attacked the job with vigor.