II

No. 22 Machin Street, Hanbridge, was next door to Bostock’s vast emporium, and exactly opposite the more exclusive, but still mighty, establishment of Ephraim Brunt, the greatest draper in the Five Towns.  It was, therefore, in the very heart and centre of retail commerce.  No woman who respected herself could buy even a sheet of pins without going past No. 22 Machin Street.  The ground-floor was a confectioner’s shop, with a back room where tea and Berlin pancakes were served to the elite who had caught from London the fashion of drinking tea in public places.  By the side of the confectioner’s was an open door and a staircase, which led to the first floor and the other floors.  A card hung by a cord to a nail indicated that Balsamo had pitched his moving tent for a few days on the first floor, in a suite of offices lately occupied by a solicitor.  Considering that the people who visit a palmist are just as anxious to publish their doings as the people who visit a pawnbroker—­and no more—­it might be thought that Balsamo had ill-chosen his site.  But this was not so.  Balsamo, a deep student of certain sorts of human nature, was perfectly aware that, just as necessity will force a person to visit a pawnbroker, so will inherited superstition force a person to visit a palmist, no matter what the inconveniences.  If he had erected a wigwam in the middle of Crown Square and people had had to decide between not seeing him at all and running the gauntlet of a crowd’s jeering curiosity, he would still have had many clients.

Of course when you are in love you are in love.  Anything may happen to you then.  Most things do happen.  For example, Adam Tellwright found himself ascending the stairs of No. 22 Machin Street at an early hour one morning.  He was, I need not say, mounting to the third floor to give an order to the potter’s modeller, who had a studio up there.  Still he stopped at the first floor, knocked at a door labelled “Balsamo,” hesitated, and went in.  I need not say that this was only fun on his part.  I need not say that he had no belief whatever in palmistry, and was not in the least superstitious.  A young man was seated at a desk, a stylish young man.  Adam Tellwright smiled, as one who expected the stylish young man to join in the joke.  But the young man did not smile.  So Adam Tellwright suddenly ceased to smile.

“Are you Mr Balsamo?” Adam inquired.

“No.  I’m his secretary.”

His secretary!  Strange how the fact that Balsamo was guarded by a secretary, and so stylish a secretary, affected the sagacious and hard-headed Adam!

“You wish to see him?” the secretary demanded coldly.

“I suppose I may as well,” said Adam, sheepishly.

“He is disengaged, I think.  But I will make sure.  Kindly sit down.”

Down sat Adam, playing nervously with his hat, and intensely hoping that no other client would come in and trap him.