Harry found himself in a room about twenty-five feet by twenty. The floor was covered with scraps of leather. Here stood a deep wooden box containing a case of shoes ready to send off. There was a stove in the center, in which, however, as it was a warm day, no fire was burning. There were three persons present. One, a man of middle age, was Mr. James Leavitt, the proprietor of the shop. His son Robert, about seventeen, worked at an adjoining bench. Tom Gavitt, a journeyman, a short, thick-set man of thirty, employed by Mr. Leavitt, was the third.
The three looked up as Harry entered the shop.
"I have a letter for Mr. Leavitt," said our hero.
"That is my name," said the eldest of the party.
Harry advanced, and placed it in his hands.
"Where did you get this letter?"
"At the post office."
"I can't call you by name. Do you live about here?"
"No, I came from Granton."
No further questions were asked just then, as Mr. Leavitt, suspending work, opened the letter.