The lad looked up into his face in the greatest amazement.  Such a question on the lips of the head of the firm rather astounded him; but then, perhaps it had not occurred to the gentleman just how many flights of steps the boys were obliged to climb.

“We are only on the fourth floor, sir,” he responded, “and it’s up the other four flights, you know.”

“Get into the elevator,” commanded Kendale; and the boy turned, and walked over to it, closely followed by his companion, mentally wondering what in the world had come over courteous, kindly Mr. Lester Armstrong.

CHAPTER XV.

The new Broom did not Sweep clean.

Clinton Kendale showed himself to be a thorough actor in carrying out a part carefully, as he followed the boy through the main office, where all of the bookkeepers were at work, toward the little office in the rear.

“Ah, this is indeed comfortable,” he exclaimed, flinging himself into a luxurious leather armchair.  “Throw the coat down anywhere, and go,” he said, as the boy stood before him awaiting his dismissal.

“Great Scott!  What an elegant nest Lester got himself into!” he ejaculated, looking about him.  “I can enjoy it far better than he could, though I don’t expect to be cooped up here more than an hour or two a day.  Those fellows out there in the outer office are paid to do the work, and I’ll be hanged if they shan’t do it—­every bit of it.  I’ll break ’em in my way, and they’ll think it’s new rules.  By George! they’ll find plenty of new rules.  Ha! ha! ha!  I suppose I’d better be opening that desk.”

Feeling in his pocket, he drew forth the bunch of keys which he had taken by force from his cousin.  One by one he fitted each to the lock, but none of them seemed to work.

“Confound the thing!” he muttered.  “My patience won’t last much longer.  Then I’ll stave it in with my heel.

“Hello, there!” he cried, as, hearing a slight noise behind him, he wheeled around and found an elderly man, with a pen behind his ear, and a sheet of paper in his hand, standing there.

“Why the deuce didn’t you knock?” he cried, angrily and flushing hotly, for he realized this man must have witnessed his vain attempts to open the desk.  “What do you want?” he asked sharply and ill-humoredly.

Mr. Conway, the old cashier—­for it was he—­was looking at him with dilated, amazed eyes; but in a moment he recovered himself.

“You said to come into your office quite as soon as you came this morning, as you wished to see me on particular business, Mr. Armstrong,” he replied in the low voice habitual with him.

For an instant the bogus Lester Armstrong’s brows were knit closely together; then he said, coolly, sharply:  “I’ve changed my mind; I don’t want to see you.”

Still the man lingered.