One declared herself to be 42 years of age, an expert typewriter, and warned me against taking a "giddy young thing" on my journey when one of her assured character could be obtained. She added that her reason for desiring a change was that her employer was a scandalous person, whose goings-on with a younger typewriter with whom she had to associate were "awful." And she enclosed as a clincher an autograph letter from her pastor, recommending her to "any Christian gentleman" needing a reliable assistant. Several were either married to men whose whereabouts were at present unknown or had been divorced. One admitted in a burst of frankness that she had "trusted a professed friend too far" and did not care what became of herself. All of which was rather amusing in its way, but brought me no nearer to the goal of my desire--a bright, cheerful companion for the voyage I was about to undertake. I examined the entire lot before I recollected the agreement I had made with Harvey Hume. Then I gathered up all the letters (except my two favorites)--for I did not mean to show these to any one--and started for his office in the middle of the afternoon. Harvey was in, of course; not that he had any clients or expected any, but because those were his office hours and he had nowhere else to go in particular. He was evidently glad to see me, especially when he espied my package, for he scented something to dispel his ennui. We withdrew into his private office and he closed the door. "Any prizes?" he asked, jocosely. "You can decide for yourself," I answered. "They are entirely at your disposal." "Humph!" he grunted, as he laid down the first one. "I wouldn't pay that girl's fare to Coney Island, judging by her capacity as a letter writer." Then he struck the communication from the forty-two-years-old damsel and gravely proceeded to show why she was the one I had best select. After awhile he asked leave to retain two or three, that he thought might be of use to him, and that I quite agreed were of none whatever to me. When he had read over about half of the entire number, he pushed the rest aside. "Rot and rubbish!" he exclaimed. "That's what I call them," I answered. "You've given up your plan?" he said, inquiringly. "By no means. But there's nothing very appetizing in that trash." "How will you find anything better?" "Oh, I've a scheme. When it develops I may let you in, but not just at this stage." I wanted to tantalize him a bit. "You asked to see this stuff and I've obliged you." Just at this moment Tom Barton came in, and Harvey threw a newspaper over the heap of letters, lest it should attract his attention and arouse his suspicions. It was quite needless, for Tom never suspected anything in his life. We talked over a few trifles for fifteen minutes and then, as Tom said he must be going, I walked out into the hall with him.