The clerk had mistaken him for his brother.
"I'm not quite clear as to whether I gave the right address," he said promptly, with his face still averted, and his attention apparently occupied by a paper in his hand.

"Just see how I wrote it, there's a good fellow." The clerk withdrew for a few minutes, and returned with the message in his hand.
"From George Sheldon to Valentine Hawkehurst, Black Swan Inn, Ullerton," he read aloud from the document.
"All right, and thanks," cried the stockbroker.
He gave one momentary glance at the clerk, and had just time to see that individual's look of bewilderment as some difference in his voice and person from the voice and person of the black-whiskered man who had just left the office dawned upon his troubled senses.

After that one glance Mr.Sheldon darted across the pavement, sprang into his cab, and called to the driver, "Literary Institution, Burton-street, as fast as you can go." "I'll try my luck in the second column of the _Times_," he said to himself.

"If George's scheme is what I take it to be, I shall get some clue to it there." He took a little oblong memorandum-book from his pocket, and looked at his memoranda of the past week.

Among those careless jottings he found one memorandum scrawled in pencil, amongst notes and addresses in ink, "_Haygarth--intestate.