which, somehow, Wacker knew I had in my possession when he first overtook me. It was at the farmhouse that I made up that letter to Haven Brothers. I dropped it next day from a wagon in which they drove me to the mine."
"All right, Markham," said Frank, "there's more to tell I know, but you'll tell me when the right time comes, I am sure."
"The right time will soon be here, never fear," declared Markham, with emotion. "I have written a letter that will bring me a friend who will quickly clear up all this mystery."
The old office had been cut up into four rooms. A young lady kept the books. Frank had engaged a crippled young man as a stenographer, and he was a good one. Markham and himself had each an office to himself. Upstairs was the stock and shipping rooms employing four boys.
"System and sense" had been Frank's watchwords—the mail order business was a pronounced success on that basis.
"A gentleman to see you," spoke the stenographer, arousing Frank from a most pleasing day dream.
Frank looked up to greet a bronzed, earnest-eyed man of middle age. He was erect and military in his bearing.
