SO it was that at last Edward Albert entered the presence of Jim Whittaker. He was ushered¹ through long aisles² of shining and glittering glass ware³ and china and porcelain⁴ into a large comfortable office where Mr James Whittaker was dictating⁵ letters to a bright-haired young stenographer⁶.

“That’s Tewler,” he said, looking round for an instant.

“Glad to see you, my boy. Sit down on that sofa there. I’ll be done with these letters in a brace⁷ of shakes and then we’ll have a talk.”

Dreams of being the missing heir or the long-lost son or half brother vanished beyond recall. Edward Albert reverted⁸ to the feudal⁹ system. He had been preparing for this encounter for four days, chiefly in the Public Library and with the librarian’s assistance, and his meditations¹⁰ and enquiries had not been without result.

“That’s all for the present, Miss Scoresby,” said Mr Whittaker and rotated startlingly in his chair as the bright — haired secretary gathered up her pads and pencils. Edward Albert had never seen a rotating armchair before. “Let’s have a look at you, young Tewler. What sort of hands have you got?”

Edward Albert hesitated, but under encouragement held out his hands.

“Not like your father’s. His were broader. You don’t happen to draw or paint or do anything like that?”

“No, I don’t, Sir,” said Edward Albert.

“H’m. No fretwork or anything of that sort?”

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