A MAN walked into the office of Richards & Tuttle, bankers and brokers, members of the New York Stock Exchange. All he could see was a ground-glass partition, with little windows only a trifle larger than peepholes, over which he read, "deliveries," "comparisons," "telegrams," and "cashier." If you had business to transact you knew at which window to knock. If you had not you should not disturb the unseen clerks by asking questions that took valuable time to answer. It was a typical, non-communicative, non-confiding Wall Street office.
The man approached the "cashier" window because it was open. He was tall and well built, with unmyopic eyes that looked through tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses. The brim of his high hat, the cut of his coat, the hang of his trousers, the hue of his necktie and the gray, waxed, needle-pointed mustaches proclaimed him unmistakably Parisian.
"I wish to see Mr. Richards," he said, in a nasal voice, so like the twang of a stage Yankee that the cashier frowned and twisted his neck to see if some down-easter were not hiding behind the Frenchman.
"You what?" asked the cashier, and looked watchful.
"I wish to see," repeated the stranger, with a formal precision meant, to be rebuking, "Mr. George B. Richards, senior member, I believe, of this firm."
The cashier, with a frown that belied the courtesy of his words, said:
"Would you be kind enough to tell me the nature of your business, sir?"
Gourley, the cashier, insanely hated book agents, and his one pleasure in life consisted of violently ejecting them from the office. When a man clearly established his innocence Gourley never forgave him for cheating him out of the kicking.
"The nature of my business with Mr. Richards is private, personal, and urgent!"
The stranger might, be a customer, and customers make brokers rich and give wages to cashiers.
"Mr. Richards is very busy just now, sir, with an important conference. It would be a favor if you could let me have your name."
"He doesn't know me and he has never heard my name."
"Say to Mr. Richards that a gentleman from Paris wishes to give to him--personally--ten letters of introduction, one card of same, and one life secret." The man's gaze was fixed frowningly on Gourley.