The same shabby clerk opened the door to him.
"I want to see your master," he said decisively, making a move towards
the office-door.
The clerk contrived to block his way.
"I beg your pardon, sir, I don't think Mr. Medler's in; but I'll go and
see."
"You needn't give yourself the trouble. I saw your master let himself in
at this door a minute ago. I suppose you were too busy to hear him come
in."
The clerk coughed a doubtful kind of cough, significant of perplexity.
"Upon my word, sir, I believe he's out; but I'll see."
"Thanks; I'd rather see myself, if you please," Gilbert said, passing the
perturbed clerk before that functionary could make up his mind whether he
ought to intercept him.
He opened the office-door and went in. Mr. Medler was sitting at his
desk, bending over some formidable document, with the air of a man who is
profoundly absorbed by his occupation; with the air also, Gilbert
thought, of a man who has been what is vernacularly called "on the
listen."
"Good-morning, Mr. Medler," Gilbert said politely; "your clerk had such a
conviction of your being out, that I had some difficulty in convincing
him you were at home."
"I've only just come in; I suppose Lucas didn't hear me."
"I suppose not; I've been here twice before in search of you, as I
conclude you have been told.
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