several times over, inside and out, and then from the pigeonhole of his
desk he began to accumulate what I supposed corroborative documents, or
_pieces justificatives._ When lie had amassed a heap several inches
thick, he rose and hurried out through the gate, across the hall where I
sat, into a room beyond. He returned without in any wise referring
himself to me and sat down at his desk again. The first clerk explained
to the anxious face with which I now approached him that the second
clerk had taken my letter to the director. I went back to my seat and
waited fifteen minutes longer, fifteen having passed already; then I
presented my anxious face, now somewhat indignant, to the first clerk
again. "What is the director doing with my letter?" The first clerk
referred my question to the second clerk, who answered from his place,
"He is verifying the signature." "But what signature?" I wondered to
myself, reflecting that he had as yet had none of mine. Could it be the
signature of my New York banker or my London one? I repaired once more
to the window, after another wait, and said in polite but firm
Castilian, "Do me the favor to return me my letter." A commotion of
protest took place within the barrier, followed by the repeated
explanation that the director was verifying the signature. I returned to
toy place and considered that the suspicious document which I had
presented bore record of moneys drawn in London, in Paris, in Tours, in
San Sebastian, which ought to have allayed all suspicion; then for the
last time I repaired to the window; more in anger now than in sorrow,
and gathered nay severest Spanish together for a final demand: "Do me
the favor to give me back my letter _without the pounds sterling."_ The
clerks consulted together; one of them decided to go to the director's
room, and after a dignified delay he came back with my letter, and
dashed it down before me with the only rudeness I experienced in Spain.

I was glad to get it on any terms; it was only too probable that it