“Jones; A. Jones, of New York City.”
“You live with your family?”
“I have no family or near relatives.”
“That is well. I will not conceal from, you that there are risks. But the pay is high. Can you endure exposure? Laboring in all weathers? Subsisting on rough fare and sleeping as you may?”
“I have camped in the northern forests.”
“Yes,” mused the voice. “You look hardy.”
Average Jones arose. “You—er—are spying upon me, then,” he drawled quietly. “I might have—er—suspected a peep-hole.”
He advanced slowly toward the door whence the voice came. A chair blocked his way. Without lowering his gaze he shoved at the obstacle with his foot.
“Have a care!” warned the voice.
The chair toppled and overturned. From it fell, with a light shock, the strange valise, which, striking the floor, flew open, disclosing a small cardboard cabinet. Across the front of the cabinet was a strip of white paper labeled in handwriting, each letter being individual, with what looked to the young man like the word “MERCY.” He stooped to replace the bag.