“The Select Agency Corporation.
“P.S.—Ask at Weaver’s Hotel for Mr Medlock.
“Liverpool.”
The welcome contents of this short note fairly staggered him. If the tone of the advertisement had been encouraging, that of this letter was positively convincing. It was concise, business-like, grammatical and courteous. Since his trouble Reginald had never been addressed by any one in the terms of respect conveyed in this communication. Furthermore, the appointment being between one and two—the dinner-hour—he would be able to keep it without difficulty or observation, particularly as Weaver’s Hotel was not a stone’s throw from the Rocket office. Then again, the fact of his letter being from a “corporation” gratified and encouraged him. A Select Agency Corporation was not the sort of company to do things meanly or inconsiderately. They were doubtless a select body of men themselves, and they required the services of select servants; and it was perfectly reasonable that in an affair like this, which might lead to nothing, strict mutual confidence should be observed. Supposing in the end he should see reason to decline to connect himself with the Corporation (Reginald liked to think this possible, though he felt sure it was not probable), why, if he had said much about it previously, it might be to the prejudice of the Corporation! Finally, he thought the name “Medlock” agreeable, and was generally highly gratified with the letter, and wished devoutly Monday would come round quickly.
The one drawback to his satisfaction was that he was still as far as ever from knowing in what direction his respectable and intelligent services were likely to be required. Monday came at last. When he went up on the Saturday to receive his wages he had fully expected to learn Mr Durfy’s intentions with regard to him, and was duly surprised when that gentleman actually handed him his money without a word, and with the faintest suspicion of a smile.
“He’s got a nailer on you, old man, and no mistake,” said Gedge, dolefully. “I’d advise you to keep your eye open for a new berth, if you get the chance; and, I say, if you can only hear of one for two!”
This last appeal went to Reginald’s heart, and he inwardly resolved, if Mr Medlock turned out to be as amiable a man as he took him for, to put in a word on Gedge’s behalf as well as his own at the coming interview.
The dinner-bell that Monday tolled solemnly in Reginald’s ears as he put on a clean collar and brushed his hair previously to embarking on his journey to Weaver’s Hotel. What change might not have taken place in his lot before that same bell summoned him once more to work? He left the Rocket a needy youth of £47 10 shillings a year. Was he to return to it passing rich of £97 10 shillings?
Weaver’s Hotel was a respectable quiet resort for country visitors in London, and Reginald, as he stood in its homely entrance hall, felt secretly glad that the Corporation selected a place like this for its London headquarters rather than one of the more showy but less respectable hotels or restaurants with which the neighbourhood abounded.
Mr Medlock was in his room, the waiter said, and Mr Cruden was to step up. He did step up, and was ushered into a little sitting-room, where a middle-aged gentleman stood before the fire-place reading the paper and softly humming to himself as he did so.