es on the two columns, "Bulteel" was not
among them. Nevertheless, she made her way perseveringly into what
seemed nothing but a little blind alley leading nowhere, and as she did
so, a small boy came running briskly down a flight of dark stairs, which
were scarcely visible from the street, and nearly knocked her over.

"'Ullo! Beg pardon 'm! Which office d' ye want?"

"Is there," began Mary, in her gentle voice--"is there a Mr.
Bulteel----?"

"Bulteel? Yes--straight up--second floor--third door--Vesey and
Symonds!"

With these words jerked out of himself at lightning speed, the boy
rushed past her and disappeared.

With a beating heart Mary cautiously climbed the dark staircase which he
had just descended. When she reached the second floor, she paused. There
were three doors all facing her,--on the first one was painted the name
of "Sir Francis Vesey"--on the second "Mr. John Symonds"--and on the
third "Mr. Bulteel." As soon as she saw this last, she heaved a little
sigh of relief, and going straight up to it knocked timidly. It was
opened at once by a young clerk who looked at her questioningly.

"Mr. Bulteel?" she asked, hesitatingly.

"Yes. Have you an appointment?"

"No. I am quite a stranger," she said. "I only wish to tell Mr. Bulteel
of the death of some one he knows."

The clerk glanced at her and seemed dubious.

"Mr. Bulteel is very busy," he began--"and unless you have an
appointment----"

"Oh, please let me see him!" And Mary's eyes almost filled with tears.
"See!"--and she held up before him the packet she carried. "I've
travelled all the way from Weircombe, in Somerset, to bring him this
from his dead friend, and I promised to give it to him myself. Please,
please do not turn me away!"

The clerk stared hard at the superscription on the packet, as he well
might. For he had at once recognised the handwriting of David Helmsley.
But he suppressed every outward sign of surprise, save such as might
appear in a glance of unconcealed wonder at Mary herself. Then he said
briefly--

"Come in!"

She obeyed, and was at once shut in a stuffy cupboard-like room which
had no other furniture than an office desk and high stool.

"Name, please!" said the clerk.

She looked startled--then smiled.

"My name? Mary Deane."

"Miss or Mrs.?"

"'Miss,' if you please, sir," she answered, the colour flushing her
cheeks with confusion at the sharpness of his manner.

The clerk gave her another up-and-dow