The outer room was an office with the clerk's chair at a table spread
with law papers. In the inner chamber, which opened from it, a little
brisk man sat poring on a deed, from which he scarce raised his eyes
upon my entrance; indeed, he still kept his finger in the place, as
though prepared to show me out and fall again to his studies. This
pleased me little enough; and what pleased me less, I thought the clerk
was in a good posture to overhear what should pass between us.

I asked if he was Mr. Charles Stewart the Writer.

"The same," says he; "and if the question is equally fair, who may you
be yourself?"

"You never heard tell of my name nor of me either," said I, "but I bring
you a token from a friend that you know well. That you know well," I
repeated, lowering my voice, "but maybe are not just so keen to hear
from at this present being. And the bits of business that I have to
propone to you are rather in the nature of being confidential. In short,
I would like to think we were quite private."

He rose without more words, casting down his paper like a man
ill-pleased, sent forth his clerk of an errand, and shut to the
house-door behind him.

"Now, sir," said he, returning, "speak out your mind and fear nothing;
though before you begin," he cries out, "I tell you mine misgives me! I
tell you beforehand, ye're either a Stewart or a Stewart sent ye. A good
name it is, and one it would ill-become my father's son to lightly. But
I begin to grue at the sound of it."