It was close upon three o’clock when I put in an appearance at the counting-house of the firm, taking up my position in a somewhat extended queue of clerks and others who had arrived on the same errand as myself. The queue was arranged in single file along a passage of considerable length on the second storey, to reach which a flight of something like a score of steps had to be ascended. Right away at the far end of this passage was what had all the appearance of a railway station booking office, where, behind a square aperture of limited dimensions, stood the sharp-witted cashier. I took my turn with the rest, and in due course found myself in front of the pigeon-hole, where I presented my uncle’s account. “All right; receipt it,” exclaimed the cashier, as he returned it. I did so, receiving the amount of the account in Bank of Scotland pound notes, a couple of score of them, or more, which I quickly folded into a kind of roll and thrust deep into my trousers pocket, keeping my hand over them for safety’s sake. Pleased with the thought that I had got the money, I briskly threaded my way among the nondescript crowd in the passage, and even more briskly negotiated the stairs. I had scarcely walked the length of the side thoroughfare which led into Jamaica Street, however, when I heard hurrying footsteps behind me, and, looking round, was surprised to see a very stylishly-dressed man, whose appearance was enhanced by his faultlessly-groomed hair and moustache. As soon as I looked in his direction he held up his hand and beckoned me to stop. Wondering what he could want with me I obeyed without further ado, waiting for him to come up with me. “Excuse me, sir,” he said, with much politeness, at the same time slightly raising his hat, “but I believe this is your handkerchief.” As he spoke he swept round his hand, which he had held behind his back, and displayed to view a blue silk specimen in the handkerchief line. It was mine; there was no doubt about that, and as I advanced my hand he extended it towards me. “I saw you drop it as you came down the stairs of Messrs. ----’s office” (mentioning the name of the firm), he explained. I thanked him and was about to resume my way when he asked if I could direct him to Hope Street. As everyone who knows anything about Glasgow is aware, it does not take long to reach Hope Street from Jamaica Street, and I was beginning to explain this to him when he cut me short with the remark that before we went any farther I must have a drink with him. As I was a teetotaller, however, I promptly declined his proffered hospitality, and once more resumed my walk. The next moment he laid a daintily-gloved hand on my shoulder, and, with an engaging smile, said, with the utmost good humour, “But surely a glass of lemonade or ginger-beer cannot do you any harm?” There was a strange magnetism about the man which carried me away, and I meekly surrendered myself to his will.