There was no such person in the office.  There never had been any such person.  The bank had always occupied that building.  Was there not some mistake in the number?  No; the name, number, and street had been deeply engrafted in the boy’s recollection.  Stop! it might be the name of a customer who had given his address at the bank.  The clerk who made this suggestion disappeared promptly to make inquiries in the counting-room.  Clarence, with a rapidly beating heart, awaited him.  The clerk returned.  There was no such name on the books.  Jackson Brant was utterly unknown to every one in the establishment.

For an instant the counter against which the boy was leaning seemed to yield with his weight; he was obliged to steady himself with both hands to keep from falling.  It was not his disappointment, which was terrible; it was not a thought of his future, which seemed hopeless; it was not his injured pride at appearing to have willfully deceived Mr. Peyton, which was more dreadful than all else; but it was the sudden, sickening sense that he himself had been deceived, tricked, and fooled!  For it flashed upon him for the first time that the vague sense of wrong which had always haunted him was this—­that this was the vile culmination of a plan to get rid of him, and that he had been deliberately lost and led astray by his relatives as helplessly and completely as a useless cat or dog!

Perhaps there was something of this in his face, for the clerk, staring at him, bade him sit down for a moment, and again vanished into the mysterious interior.  Clarence had no conception how long he was absent, or indeed anything but his own breathless thoughts, for he was conscious of wondering afterwards why the clerk was leading him through a door in the counter into an inner room of many desks, and again through a glass door into a smaller office, where a preternaturally busy-looking man sat writing at a desk.  Without looking up, but pausing only to apply a blotting-pad to the paper before him, the man said crisply—­

“So you’ve been consigned to some one who don’t seem to turn up, and can’t be found, eh?  Never mind that,” as Clarence laid Peyton’s letter before him.  “Can’t read it now.  Well, I suppose you want to be shipped back to Stockton?”

“No!” said the boy, recovering his voice with an effort.

“Eh, that’s business, though.  Know anybody here?”

“Not a living soul; that’s why they sent me,” said the boy, in sudden reckless desperation.  He was the more furious that he knew the tears were standing in his eyes.

The idea seemed to strike the man amusingly.  “Looks a little like it, don’t it?” he said, smiling grimly at the paper before him.  “Got any money?”

“A little.”

“How much?”

“About twenty dollars,” said Clarence hesitatingly.  The man opened a drawer at his side, mechanically, for he did not raise his eyes, and took out two ten-dollar gold pieces.  “I’ll go twenty better,” he said, laying them down on the desk.  “That’ll give you a chance to look around.  Come back here, if you don’t see your way clear.”  He dipped his pen into the ink with a significant gesture as if closing the interview.