On the mahogany table-desk before him lay now a couple of books: one a
long, ledger-like folio in the russet covering sacred to the binding of
that particular kind of work which a summer-hearted Writer of books
years ago inscribed as "a book of great interest;" the other, a smaller
volume, a memorandum book, more richly attired than its sober companion,
in Russia leather.

For an hour or two Mr. Livingstone, with closely-drawn, thin lips, and
eager eyes, had sat in his seat, silent, immersed, absorbed, and
compared the two volumes, from time to time making memoranda in the
smaller book, whilst his clerks had sat on their high stools in the
large office outside looking impatiently at the white-faced clock on the
wall as it slowly marked the passing time, or gazing enviously and
grumblingly out of the windows at the dark, hurrying crowds below making
their way homeward through the falling snow.

The young men could not have stood it but for the imperturbable patience
and sweet temper of the oldest man in the office, a quiet-faced,
middle-aged man, who, in a low, cheery, pleasant voice, restrained their
impatience and soothed their ruffled spirits.

Even this, however, was only partially successful.

"Go in there, Mr. Clark, and tell him we want to go home," urged
fretfully one youth, a tentative dandy, with a sharp nose and blunt
chin, who had been diligently arranging his vivid necktie for more than
a half-hour at a little mirror on the wall.

"Oh! He'll be out directly now," replied the older man, looking up from