“We have a good deal of business with America,” he said. “I can scarcely tell you how it began. One of our clients had a son that went out, and got on very well in business, and one thing followed another; what with remittances home, and expenses out, and money for the starting of farms, and so forth,--and then being laid open to the temptation of American investments, which, as a rule, pay very well, and all our poor customers just give us no peace till we put their money on them. This makes it very necessary for us to know the state of the American stock market, and how this and that is going. You will not maybe quite understand, but so it is.” “I understand,” Mrs Ogilvy said. “And this one, you see, was sent to us a day or two ago with this object. It’s from one of the towns in what’s called the wild West, just a ramshackle sort of a place, half built, and not a comfortable house in it. But they’ve got a newspaper, such as it is. And really valuable to us for the last week or two, showing the working of a great scheme.” Would the man never be done? He laid the newspaper across his knee, and pointed his words with little gestures made over it. A glance would have been enough to show her what it was. But no, let patience have its perfect work. By moments she closed her eyes not to see him, and spoke not a word. “Well, you see, the business of overlooking these American investments comes upon me; and I get a great many of their papers to glance at--trashy things, full of personal gossip, the most outrageous nonsense. I don’t often look beyond the share lists. But this morning, when I first came into the office, this thing was lying on my table. I had glanced at it, and taken what was of use in it yesterday. It’s just a wonder how it got there again. I gave another glance at it by pure chance, if you’ll believe me, as I slipped on my office-coat. And my eye was caught by a name. Well, it was only an _alias_, among a lot of others; but I’ve been told that away there in these wild places you can never tell which may be a man’s real name--as like as not the fifth or sixth _alias_ in a long line.” He looked up at her by chance, and it seemed to him as if his client had fainted. Her face was drawn and perfectly white, the eyes half closed. “Bless me!” he cried, starting up; “it’s been more than she could bear. What can I do?--some water, or maybe ring the bell.” He was about to do this when she caught him with one hand, and with the other pointed to the paper. Something like “Let me hear it,” came from her half-closed lips. “That I will! that I will!” he cried. It was a relief that she could speak and see. He took up the paper, and was--how long--a year? of finding the place.