“You see, my friends are willing to give me a character, sir,” the man remarked, with a ghost of a smile.  “My name is Edward Owston.  I was clerk at a large drapery firm, Messrs. Appleby, Sons, and Dawson, in St. Paul’s Churchyard, for fourteen years.  I have a verified character from them.  They were obliged to cult down their staff, owing to foreign competition, and—­I have never succeeded—­in obtaining another situation.  There is nothing against me, sir.  I would have worked for fifteen shillings a week.  I walked the streets till my boots were worn through and my clothes hung around me like rags.  It was bad luck at first—­afterwards it was my clothes.  I have been selling matches for a month it has brought me in two shillings a week.”

“How old are you?” Brooks asked.  “Thirty-four, sir.”  Brooks nearly dropped his pen.

“What?” he exclaimed.

“Thirty-four, sir.  It is four years since I lost my situation.”

The man’s hair was grey, a little stubbly grey beard was jutting out from his chin.  His eyes were almost lost in deep hollows.  Brooks felt a lump in his throat, and for a moment pretended to be writing busily.  Then he looked up.

“We shall give you a fresh start in life, Edward Owston,” he said.  “Follow this gentleman at my left.  He will find you clothes and food.  To-morrow you will go to a cottage which belongs to us at Hastings for one month.  Afterwards, if your story is true, we shall find you a suitable situation—­if it is partially true, we shall still find you something to do.  If it is altogether false we cannot help you, for absolute truth in answering our questions is the only condition we impose.”  The man never uttered a word.  He went out leaning upon the arm of one of Brooks’ assistants.  Another, who was a doctor, after a glance into the man’s face, followed them.  When he returned, after about twenty minutes’ absence, he leaned forward and whispered in Brooks’ ear “You’ll never have to find a situation for that poor fellow.  A month’s about all he’s good for.”  Brooks looked round shocked.  “What is it—­drink?” he asked.  The doctor shook his head.

“Not a trace of it.  Starvation and exhaustion.  If I hadn’t been with him just now he’d have been dead before this.  He fainted away.”

Brooks half closed his eyes.

“It is horrible!” he murmured.

The costermonger was next.  Brooks looked around the room and at the clock.

“Look here,” he said.  “If I sit here till tomorrow I can’t possibly attend to all of you.  I tell you what I’ll do.  If you others will give place to those whose cases are really urgent, I’ll be here at seven to-morrow morning till seven at night, and the next day too, if necessary.  It’s no good deputing any one else to tell me, because however many branches we open—­and I hope we shall open a great many—­I mean to manage this one myself, and I must know you all personally.  Now are you all agreeable?”