Owen entered the office with the book in his hand. Mr Fluke was engaged in his private room. Mr Tarwig, the head clerk, got off his stool to speak to him, and had Owen put a proper value on this piece of condescension, he would have considered it a good sign.
“Sit down, my boy, the master will be out soon, and he has something to say to you,” said Mr Tarwig, pointing to a bench, and nodding to Owen, he returned to his seat. In a few minutes the door opened, and a fine-looking seafaring man, evidently the master of a ship, came out. As he passed by he gave a glance at Owen, who heard him addressed by Mr Tarwig as Captain Aggett. “What a pleasant look he has,” thought Owen; “I should like to be under him. I wonder if he can give me anything to do?” Mr Fluke put his head out directly afterwards, and seeing Owen, beckoned him in.
“Well, lad, have you got the book?” he asked.
Owen undid the parcel, and handed him the volume. The old man examined it minutely, but Owen could detect no change in his countenance.
“That’s my handwriting, there’s no doubt about it, written when I gave the book to my cousin Susan, as she was about to marry Henry Walford,” muttered Mr Fluke to himself. He was then silent for some time, forgetting, apparently, that any one was in the room. “Have you any books with the name of Walford in them?” he asked, fixing his keen glance on Owen; “that would be more clear proof that you are the person whom you say you are.”
“Yes, sir, I remember several of my mother’s books which she had before her marriage, and others which had belonged to my grandmother, with their names in them; I do not know, however, whether they can be recovered. A bookseller purchased the whole of them at the sale which took place at the vicarage, but perhaps he has not yet disposed of them.”
“Boy, the books must be got at any price,” exclaimed the old man, in an authoritative tone, like that of a person not accustomed to be contradicted. “Write to your friends, and tell them to buy them all up; I will send them a cheque for the amount. We must not let them go to the grocer’s to wrap up butter and cheese.”
“I will do as you desire, sir,” said Owen.
“I am inclined to believe the account you give of yourself, boy, and you shall have a trial,” said Mr Fluke; his manner was far less abrupt than it had hitherto been, and comparatively gentle. “Go to the outer office, I am busy now; Mr Tarwig will look after you, and tell me what he thinks.”
He went to the door, and summoned his head clerk.