A Clerk Took The Letter And Scrutinized It With A
Deliberation Which I Thought It Scarcely Merited.
His self-respect
doubtless would not suffer him to betray that he could not read the
English of it; and with an air of wishing to consult higher authority he
carried it to another clerk at a desk across the room.
To this official
it seemed to come as something of a blow. Tie made a show of reading it
several times over, inside and out, and then from the pigeonhole of his
desk he began to accumulate what I supposed corroborative documents, or
_pieces justificatives._ When lie had amassed a heap several inches
thick, he rose and hurried out through the gate, across the hall where I
sat, into a room beyond. He returned without in any wise referring
himself to me and sat down at his desk again. The first clerk explained
to the anxious face with which I now approached him that the second
clerk had taken my letter to the director. I went back to my seat and
waited fifteen minutes longer, fifteen having passed already; then I
presented my anxious face, now somewhat indignant, to the first clerk
again. "What is the director doing with my letter?" The first clerk
referred my question to the second clerk, who answered from his place,
"He is verifying the signature." "But what signature?" I wondered to
myself, reflecting that he had as yet had none of mine. Could it be the
signature of my New York banker or my London one?
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