Owen had to
wait and wait on, watching the clerks as they sat at their desks, and
observing the visitors as they paced up and down, while waiting their
turns to have an interview with the principal of the establishment.
This impressed Owen with the idea that the brown, snuffy old gentleman
was a far more important personage than he had at first supposed.
Several of the clerks who were moving about with papers in their hands
frequently passed the young stranger, but no one spoke, or bestowed even
an inquiring glance at him. Owen, who was tired with his journey and
long walk, was, in spite of his anxiety, nearly dropping asleep, when he
heard the words--

"Well, boy, what is it you want? Quick, say your business, I have no
time to spare."

The words were spoken by the brown-coated old gentleman. Owen, starting
up, followed him into the inner office. Here Mr Fluke, nimbly taking
his seat on his high stool with his back to the desk, again asked in a
testy tone, "What is it you want?" Owen stood, hat in hand, as he had
done nearly two hours before, and began briefly recounting his history.

"Tut, tut, what's all that to me?" exclaimed the old gentleman, pushing
up his spectacles, and taking a huge pinch of snuff, as he narrowly
scrutinised the boy with his sharp grey eyes. "What more have you got
to say for yourself?"

"I did not explain, sir, as I ought to have done at first, that my
mother's name was Walford, and that she was the daughter of a Miss Susan
Fluke, who married my grandfather, Mr Henry Walford."

The old gentleman had not hitherto ceased kicking his legs against the
high stool, a custom which had become habitual. He stopped, however, on
hearing this, and looked more keenly than ever at Owen.

"What proof have you got, boy, that your mother was once Susan Fluke?"
he asked in a sharp tone.

"David Rowe, who is clerk to Mr Orlando Browne the lawyer, found the
name in a book which had once been my grandmother's, and left by her to
my mother, called `Sturm's Reflections.'"

"I should like to see the book," said Mr Fluke, in a tone which showed
more interest than he had hitherto exhibited.

"David Rowe has the book at Fenside, but I could get it sent to you,
sir, if you wish to see it," said Owen.

"I do wish to see it; I want proof of the strange story you tell me,"
said the old man, taking another pinch of snuff. "And suppose it is
true, what do you want of me?"

"I want to find employment, si