At an inclined desk, a type-case, stood another man setting type, close beside the press.

He, also, was in his shirt-sleeves and was much older and stouter than the man at the press.
The rumbling had drowned the slight noise occasioned by the opening of the door, so that Frances stood waiting a full minute before she was observed.

The stout man at the type-case was the first to see her, and when he turned, she asked, trembling:-- "I am seeking Master Hamilton.

Shall I find him here ?" The man at the press then turned quickly to Frances.

His face was smooth shaven, but was almost covered with printers' ink, giving him the appearance of a blackamoor.