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 on 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