"Oh, please let me see him!" And Mary's eyes almost filled with tears. "See!"—and she held up before him the packet she carried. "I've travelled all the way from Weircombe, in Somerset, to bring him this from his dead friend, and I promised to give it to him myself. Please, please do not turn me away!"
The clerk stared hard at the superscription on the packet, as he well might. For he had at once recognised the handwriting of David Helmsley. But he suppressed every outward sign of surprise, save such as might appear in a glance of unconcealed wonder at Mary herself. Then he said briefly—
"Come in!"
She obeyed, and was at once shut in a stuffy cupboard-like room which had no other furniture than an office desk and high stool.
"Name, please!" said the clerk.
She looked startled—then smiled.
"My name? Mary Deane."
"Miss or Mrs.?"
"'Miss,' if you please, sir," she answered, the colour flushing her cheeks with confusion at the sharpness of his manner.
The clerk gave her another up-and-down look, and opening a door behind his office desk vanished like a conjuror tricking himself through a hole.