appeared, at the first glance, to be empty. But on a second and
more careful glance, we saw seated behind a very large desk with
pigeonholes and drawers of bewildering multiplicity, a small man
with a black waxed moustache, and the air of a very average clerk,
writing hard. He looked up as we came to a standstill.

"Did you knock?" he asked pleasantly. "I am sorry if I did not
hear. What can I do for you?"

There was a doubtful pause, and then, by general consent, the Major
himself, the victim of the outrage, stepped forward.

The letter was in his hand, and he looked unusually grim.

"Is your name P. G. Northover?" he asked.

"That is my name," replied the other, smiling.

"I think," said Major Brown, with an increase in the dark glow of
his face, "that this letter was written by you." And with a loud
clap he struck open the letter on the desk with his clenched fist.
The man called Northover looked at it with unaffected interest and
merely nodded.

"Well, sir," said the Major, breathing hard, "what about that?"

"What about it, precisely," said the man with the moustache.

"I am Major Brown," said that gentleman sternly.