One night when Jack returned from his now almost aimless tramping about the city he found a letter on his table.  It seemed from the printing on the envelope to be a business letter; and business, in the condition he was in—­and it was the condition in which he usually came home—­did not interest him.  He was about to toss the letter aside, when the name of Fletcher caught his eye, and he opened it.

It was a brief note, written on an office memorandum, which simply asked Mr. Delancy to call at the office as soon as it was convenient, as the writer wished to talk with him on a matter of business, and it was signed “Gilbert Fletcher.”

“Why don’t he say what his business is?” said Jack, throwing the letter down impatiently.  “I am not going to be hauled over the coals by any of the Fletchers.”  And he tumbled into bed in an injured and yet independent frame of mind.

But the next morning he reread the formal little letter in a new light.  To be sure, it was from Edith’s cousin.  He knew him very well; he was not a person to go out of his way to interfere with anybody, and more than likely it was in relation to Edith’s affairs that he was asked to call.  That thought put a new aspect on the matter.  Of course if it concerned her interests he ought to go.  He dressed with unusual care for him in these days, breakfasted at the cheap restaurant which he frequented, and before noon was in the Fletcher warehouse in Pearl Street.

He had never been there before, and he was somewhat curious to see what sort of a place it was where Gilbert carried on the string business, as he used to call it when speaking to Edith of her cousin’s occupation.  It was a much more dingy and smelly place than he expected, but the carts about the doors, and the bustle of loading and unloading, of workmen hauling and pulling, and of clerks calling out names and numbers to be registered and checked, gave him the impression that it was not a dull place.

Mr. Fletcher received him in the little dim back office with a cordial shake of the hand, gave him a chair, and reseated himself, pushing back the papers in front of him with the air of a very busy man who was dropping for a moment one thing in order to give his mind promptly to another.

“Our fall trade is just starting up,” he said, “and it keeps us all pretty busy.”

“Yes,” said Jack.  “I could drop in any other time—­”

“No, no,” interrupted Mr. Fletcher; “it is just because I am busy that I wanted to see you.  Are you engaged in anything?”

“Nothing in particular,” replied Jack, hesitating.  “I’d thought of going into some business.”  And then, after a pause:  “It’s no use to mince matters.  You know—­everybody knows, I suppose—­that I got hit in that Henderson panic.”

“So did lots of others,” replied Mr. Fletcher, cheerfully.  “Yes, I know about it.  And I’m not sure but it was a lucky thing for me.”  He spoke still more cheerfully, and Jack looked at him inquiringly.