When he reached the house of the gentleman he had been sent to see, he delivered the papers, and asked: “How long do you think it will be before you have the answer ready?” “Why? Do you have to go somewhere else in this neighborhood?” asked the client. “I would like to go to a restaurant,” replied Tom. “Is there one near here?” “I’m afraid not, but I’d be glad to have you come in and take tea with me.” “Oh, no; I wouldn’t like to trouble you.” “It will be no trouble at all. I am all alone this evening, as my wife and daughters have gone to Symphony Hall to a concert. Come in, for it will take me some time to look over these papers, and prepare my answer.” Tom was too hungry to be bashful, and he was soon seated at a table bountifully spread, while a neatly-dressed servant brought him a hot cup of tea, which was grateful after the long cold ride. The gentleman was so busily engaged with the legal documents that he did not get a chance to eat with Tom, who was all alone at the table, which the boy did not regret, as his appetite was particularly good, and he did not want to feel embarrassed by dining with a stranger. “There, I think that covers it,” said the gentleman at length, as he handed Tom a bundle of papers. “Tell Mr. Keen I will see him at court, in the morning. Did you manage to make out a meal?” “Yes, sir, and I thank you very much.” It was nearly nine o’clock when Tom reached the office of the law firm in Washington Street. He went up to the big front doors and he did not have to knock, as Mr. Keen had told him to do, as the watchman was on the lookout for him. “Is it cold out,” asked the old man, who had charge of the building nights. “It’s getting colder,” remarked Tom. “Feels like snow, too.” “I don’t like that,” complained the watchman. “It’s bad for my rheumatism. I don’t suppose that bothers you.” “Not yet,” said Tom with a laugh, as he prepared to climb the stairs to Mr. Keen’s office, the elevator having stopped running. He found a light burning in the outer room, where the telephone switchboard was, but Mr. Keen’s apartment was in darkness. “He must be out,” thought Tom. “Well, I’ll leave the papers on his desk. But there’s a light in Mr. Cutler’s office. Maybe he’s in there.” He started toward the door, but, before he could reach it the portal opened, and Mr. Cutler came out. “What are you doing here?” he asked Tom sharply. “You have no right in here after office hours.” “I have been on an errand for Mr. Keen,” replied Tom. “He told me to leave the answer on his desk.” As he spoke he heard a noise of papers rattling in Mr. Cutler’s room, and he knew the lawyer must have a visitor. Mr. Cutler’s manner was strange. He seemed much annoyed at beholding Tom. “Well,” he said, “leave the papers and then go home. We don’t want the office boys around here after hours.”