“And wipe your feet,” murmured the second, in a low tone.
A gentleman, with an earnest countenance, entered.
“Is Mr Lowstoft in his office?”
“He is, sir,” said the first clerk, descending from his perch with an air of good-will, and requesting the visitor’s name and business.
The visitor handed his card, on which the name Cyrus Field was written, and the clerk, observing it, admitted the owner at once to the inner sanctum where Mr Lowstoft transacted business.
“There’s something up,” murmured the clerk, with a mysterious look at his comrade, on resuming his perch.
“Time’s up, or nearly so,” replied the comrade, with an anxious look at the clock:
“The witching hour which sets us free
To saunter home and have our tea—
“approaches.”
“D’you know that that is Cyrus Field?” said the first clerk.