The next day Patricia dressed herself in a plain, dark skirt, a long grey coat and wore two heavy veils over an unobtrusive sailor hat. In her hand she clutched a small hand satchel containing the precious check and the odious letter of John Doe. First she went to the bank and converted the check into crisp thousand dollar notes. Then walking rapidly she took the elevated for that unknown region which men call down-town. There was little difficulty in finding the place. The narrow doorway she had imagined was wide--even imposing, and an Irish janitor with a cheerful countenance, was sweeping the pavement and whistling. It was not in the least Dickens-ish, or Machiavellian. The atmosphere was that of a very cheerful and modern New York and Patricia's spirits revived. A cleanly boy in buttons ran the elevator. But as the elevator shot up, Patty's heart shot down. She had hoped there would be stairs to climb. The imminence of the visit filled her with alarm, and before she realized it, she was deposited--a bundle of quivering nerves, before the very door. Gathering her shattered forces together, she knocked timorously and entered. It was a cheerful room with a bright carpet and an outlook over the river. A small boy who sat inside a wooden railing, sprang up and came forward. "I wish to see Mr. Doe," stammered Patty, "Mr. John Doe." "Must be a mistake," said the youth. "This is Fairman & Brookes, Investments. Nobody that name here, ma'am." At that moment an elderly man of very proper appearance came forward from an inner office. "Mrs. Crabb?" he inquired, politely. "That will do, Dick, you may go inside," and then rather quizzically: "You wished to see Mr.--er--Mr.--Doe? Mr. John Doe? I think he was expecting you. If you'll wait a moment I'll see," and he entered a door which led to another office.