But he was well aware
that, in New York, a citizen's reputation is not in the least degree
affected by the company that he keeps.
They soon arrived at the Bartholomew Buildings--a rickety five-story
edifice, which had been altered from a hotel to a nest of private
offices. The basement was a restaurant, the first floor a dry goods
store, and thence to the roof there was a small Babel of trades and
professions known and unknown. No census taker had ever booked all the
businesses and all the names under that comprehensive roof.
In the upper story of this building, at the end of a long, hall, the
floor of which was hollowed in places by the feet of half a century, was
the room, or office, as he called it, of Mr. Wesley Tiffles. There was
no number, or sign, on the door, but only a card bearing the
inscription, in a bold hand, "Back in five minutes." Mr. Tiffles always
put out this standing announcement whenever he had occasion to absent
himself from his office for an indefinite period. At the top of the door
there was a swinging window, which was ever close fastened, and covered
with four thicknesses of newspapers.
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