“Yes, sir.”
“I don’t understand what he wants of me, or how in the name of all that is curious he ever heard of me. I don’t own any real estate, except a three-story house in which I live.”
“Perhaps, sir, if you will go to the office with me you will get an explanation.”
“Precisely. That is a very practical and sensible suggestion. Is it far off? I ask because I have never been in New York before.”
“It is only about ten minutes’ walk.”
“Then I’ll go with you, that is, if you can wait fifteen minutes while I finish writing a letter to my wife, apprising her of my safe arrival.”
“Yes, sir, I am in no especial hurry.”
“Then sit down, and—you may look at this,” handing him the last copy of Puck.
Chester opened the paper eagerly, for Puck had accepted two of his sketches. He opened it at random, and his eye lighted up, for there was one of the two sketches handsomely reproduced. He uttered a little exclamation.
“What have you found?” asked Paul Perkins, looking up from his letter.