“I suppose you are Mr. Pepper?” began Brandon.
“I—sup—pose—I—am,” replied the gentleman, with great care, scrutinizing the face of the captain’s son with marked interest.
“Let’s see, what is your name?” he said: “or, no, you needn’t tell me. I know it already. Your name is Tarr, and you are Captain Horace Tarr’s son!”
“Yes, sir, I am,” Brandon replied in surprise.
“I knew it, I knew it!” declared Mr. Pepper, shaking both the boy’s hands so violently that the eye glasses, which had a hard enough time generally in staying on the little man’s nose, tumbled off, and were only caught and saved from destruction by great agility on Mr. Pepper’s part.
“My dear boy! I’d have known you if I’d met you in Timbuctoo!” he declared. “Come into my office and tell me all about yourself. I’ve been thinking about you ever since—er—your poor father’s death. I’ve got something to tell you, too.”
He led Brandon toward the inner door, marked “Private,” and opening it, disclosed a comfortably furnished room with a fire in the grate, and a general air of cheerfulness about it.
“Come right in,” he repeated, and then shut the door behind his visitor.
But no sooner was the door closed than the acrobatic clerk was off his stool, and had his ear fitted to the keyhole with a celerity which denoted much practice in the art of eavesdropping.