One of them soon approached, and Ann Eliza repeated her request. He received it affably. “Mr. Loomis? Go right down to the office at the other end.” He pointed to a kind of box of ground glass and highly polished panelling. As she thanked him he turned to one of his companions and said something in which she caught the name of Mr. Loomis, and which was received with an appreciative chuckle. She suspected herself of being the object of the pleasantry, and straightened her thin shoulders under her mantle. The door of the office stood open, and within sat a gray-bearded man at a desk. He looked up kindly, and again she asked for Mr. Loomis. “I'm Mr. Loomis. What can I do for you?” He was much less portentous than the others, though she guessed him to be above them in authority; and encouraged by his tone she seated herself on the edge of the chair he waved her to. “I hope you'll excuse my troubling you, sir. I came to ask if you could tell me anything about Mr. Herman Ramy. He was employed here in the clock-department two or three years ago.” Mr. Loomis showed no recognition of the name. “Ramy? When was he discharged?” “I don't har'ly know. He was very sick, and when he got well his place had been filled. He married my sister last October and they went to St. Louis, I ain't had any news of them for over two months, and she's my only sister, and I'm most crazy worrying about her.” “I see.” Mr. Loomis reflected. “In what capacity was Ramy employed here?” he asked after a moment. “He--he told us that he was one of the heads of the clock-department,” Ann Eliza stammered, overswept by a sudden doubt. “That was probably a slight exaggeration. But I can tell you about him by referring to our books. The name again?” “Ramy--Herman Ramy.” There ensued a long silence, broken only by the flutter of leaves as Mr. Loomis turned over his ledgers. Presently he looked up, keeping his finger between the pages. “Here it is--Herman Ramy. He was one of our ordinary workmen, and left us three years and a half ago last June.” “On account of sickness?” Ann Eliza faltered. Mr. Loomis appeared to hesitate; then he said: “I see no mention of sickness.” Ann Eliza felt his compassionate eyes on her again. “Perhaps I'd better tell you the truth. He was discharged for drug-taking. A capable workman, but we couldn't keep him straight. I'm sorry to have to tell you this, but it seems fairer, since you say you're anxious about your sister.” The polished sides of the office vanished from Ann Eliza's sight, and the cackle of the innumerable clocks came to her like the yell of waves in a storm. She tried to speak but could not; tried to get to her feet, but the floor was gone. “I'm very sorry,” Mr. Loomis repeated, closing the ledger. “I remember the man perfectly now. He used to disappear every now and then, and turn up again in a state that made him useless for days.”