Young Wallingford by George Randolph Chester

Blackie Daw's most recent Boston address had been: "Yellow Streak Mining Company, Seven Hundred and Ten Marabon Building," and yet when J. Rufus paused before number seven hundred and ten of that building he found its glass door painted with the sign of the National Clockers' Association. Worried by the fact that Blackie had moved, yet struck by the peculiar coincidence of his place being occupied by the concern that had given him the tip on Razzoo, he walked into the office to inquire the whereabouts of his friend. He found three girls at a long table, slitting open huge piles of envelopes and removing from them money, postal orders and checks -- mostly money, for the sort of people who patronized the National Clockers' Association were quite willing to "take a chance" on a five- or a twenty-dollar bill in the mails.

Behind a newspaper, in a big leather chair near a flat-top mahogany desk, with his feet conveniently elevated on the waste-basket, sat a gentleman who, when he moved the paper aside to see whom his visitor might be, proved to be Blackie Daw himself.