It may be asked how a young bachelor, with private means and a fine salary, living in a district where prices are low and social conventions not costly, could have come to such a pass.  The answer is that Louis had no private means, and that his salary was not fine.  The thousand pounds had gradually vanished, as a thousand pounds will, in the refinements of material existence and in the pursuit of happiness.  His bank-account had long been in abeyance.  His salary was three pounds a week.  Many a member of the liberal professions—­many a solicitor, for example—­brings up a family on three pounds a week in the provinces.  But for a Lieutenant-General’s nephew, who had once had a thousand pounds in one lump, three pounds a week was inadequate.  As a fact, Louis conceived himself “Art Director” of Horrocleave’s, and sincerely thought that as such he was ill-paid.  Herein was one of his private excuses for eccentricity with the petty cash.  It may also be asked what Louis had to show for his superb expenditure.  The answer is, nothing.

With the seventy-three pounds desolatingly clear in his mind, he quitted his desk in order to reconnoitre the outer and larger portion of the counting-house.  He went as far as the archway, and saw black smoke being blown downwards from heaven into Friendly Street.  A policeman was placidly regarding the smoke as he strolled by.  And Louis, though absolutely sure that the officer would not carry out his plain duty of summoning Horrocleave’s for committing a smoke-nuisance, did not care for the spectacle of the policeman.  He returned to the inner office, and locked the door.  The “staff” and the “hands” had all gone, save one or two piece-workers in the painting-shop across the yard.

The night watchman, fresh from bed, was moving fussily about the yard.  He nodded with respect to Louis through the grimy window.  Louis lit the gas, and spread a newspaper in front of the window by way of blind.  And then he began a series of acts on the petty-cash book.  The office clock indicated twenty past six.  He knew that time was short, but he had a natural gift for the invention and execution of these acts, and he calculated that under half an hour would suffice for them.  But when he next looked at the clock, the acts being accomplished, one hour had elapsed; it had seemed to him more like a quarter of an hour.  Yet as blotting-paper cannot safely be employed in such delicate calligraphic feats as those of Louis’, even an hour was not excessive for what he had done.  An operator clumsier, less cool, less cursory, more cautious than himself might well have spent half a night over the job.  He locked up the book, washed his hands and face with remarkable celerity in a filthy lavatory basin, brushed his hair, removed his cuff-shields, changed his coat, and fled at speed, leaving the key of the office with the watchman.

III