Outside, his boy--he had a clerk of fourteen at five shillings a week--sat before the fire reading the heroic jests and achievements of the illustrious Jack Harkaway. He was a nice boy, full of imagination, resolved on becoming another Jack Harkaway when the time should arrive, and for the moment truly grateful to fortune for providing him with a situation which demanded no work except to post letters and to sit before the fire reading in a warm and comfortable outer room to which no callers or visitors ever came except his employer and the postman; and if you asked that boy what was the character of the agency, he would not be able to tell you. When Mr. George Crediton had finished making his extracts, he pinned the papers together methodically, and laid them on one side. Then he opened the last letter. “He’s answered it,” he chuckled. “Fred’s handwriting. I knew it--I knew it. Called himself Barlow, but I knew it directly. Oh, he’ll come--he’ll come.” He sat down and laughed silently, shaking the room with his chuckling. “He’ll come. Won’t he be astonished?” Presently he heard a step and a voice: “I want to see Mr. George Crediton.” “That’s Fred,” said the Agent, chuckling again. “Now for it.” “There’s nobody with him,” the boy replied, not venturing to commit himself, and unaccustomed to the arrival of strangers. The caller was a tall man of about forty-five, well set up, and strongly built. He was dressed with the appearance of prosperity, therefore he carried a large gold chain. His face bore the marks which we are accustomed to associate with certain indulgences, especially in strong drink. It is needless to dwell upon these evidences of frailty; besides, one may easily be mistaken. It was a kind of face which might be met with in a snug bar-parlour with a pipe and a glass of something hot--a handsome face, but not intellectual or refined. Yet it ought to have been both. In spite of broadcloth and white linen the appearance of this gentleman hardly extorted the immediate respect of the beholder. “Tell Mr. Crediton that Mr. Joseph Barlow is outside.” “Barlow?” said the boy. “Why don’t you go in, then?” and turned over now to his book of adventures. Mr. Barlow obeyed, and passed into the inner office. There he stopped short, and cried: “Christopher, by all that’s holy!” The Agent looked up, sprang to his feet, and held out his hand. “Fred! Back again, and become a Barlow!” Fred took the outstretched hand, but doubtfully. “Come to that, Chris, you’re a Crediton.” “In the way of business, Crediton.” “Quite so. In the way of business, Barlow.” Then they looked at each other and burst into laughter. “I knew your handwriting, Fred. When I got your letter I knew it was yours, so I sent you a type-written reply. Typewriting never betrays, and can’t be found out if you want to be secret.” “Oh, it’s mighty funny, Chris. But I don’t understand it. What the devil does it all mean?”