I laid aside my pipe and threw on my coat. On reaching the right landing, I made my way along an almost interminable corridor, until I stood before the mysterious room 16.
As I entered, a respectably dressed, middle-aged man was coming out, hat in hand. Two others were sitting inside, apparently waiting an interview, while a smart-looking young lady,—evidently a stenographer,—was showing a fourth into the room adjoining.
It dawned on me that this request to call must be the outcome of the letter I had written that morning in answer to the newspaper advertisement.
I immediately assumed what I thought to be the correct, meek expression of a man looking for work; with, I hope, becoming timidity and nervousness, I whispered my name to the young lady. Then I took a seat alongside one of my fellow applicants, who eyed me askance and with what I took to be amused tolerance.
Five minutes, and the young lady ushered out the man who had been on the point of being interviewed as I had come in.
"Mr. Monaghan?" queried the lady.
Mr. Monaghan rose and followed her.
An interval of ten minutes, and Mr. Monaghan went after his predecessor.
"Mr. Rubenstein?" asked the lady.
Mr. Rubenstein, who, every inch of him, looked the part, went through the routine of Mr. Monaghan, leaving me alone in the waiting room.