Scarlett Trent faced him coldly. “What do you know about it?” he asked. “What concern is it of yours, young man, eh?” The clerk sighed, and became a little confused. He had indulged in some wistful hopes that for once his master might have relaxed, that an opportune word of congratulation might awaken some spark of generosity in the man who had just added a fortune to his great store. He had a girl-wife from whose cheeks the roses were slowly fading, and very soon would come a time when a bank-note, even the smallest, would be a priceless gift. It was for her sake he had spoken. He saw now that he had made a mistake. “I am very sorry, sir,” he said humbly. “Of course I know that these men have paid an immense sum for their shares in the Bekwando Syndicate. At the same time it is not my business, and I am sorry that I spoke.” “It is not your business at any time to remember what I receive for properties,” Scarlett Trent said roughly. “Haven't I told you that before? What did I say when you came to me? You were to hear nothing and see nothing outside your duties! Speak up, man! Don't stand there like a jay!” The clerk was pale, and there was an odd sensation in his throat. But he thought of his girl-wife and he pulled himself together. “You are quite right, sir,” he said. “To any one else I should never have mentioned it. But we were alone, and I thought that the circumstances might make it excusable.” His employer grunted in an ominous manner. “When I say forget, I mean forget,” he declared. “I don't want to be reminded by you of my own business. D'ye think I don't know it?” “I am very sure that you do, sir,” the clerk answered humbly. “I quite see that my allusion was an error.” Scarlett Trent had turned round in his chair, and was eying the pale, nervous figure with a certain hard disapproval. “That's a beastly coat you've got on, Dickenson,” he said. “Why don't you get a new one?” “I am standing in a strong light, sir,” the young man answered, with a new fear at his heart. “It wants brushing, too. I will endeavour to get a new one--very shortly.” His employer grunted again. “What's your salary?” he asked. “Two pounds fifteen shillings a week, sir.” “And you mean to say that you can't dress respectably on that? What do you do with your money, eh? How do you spend it? Drink and music-halls, I suppose!” The young man was able at last to find some spark of dignity. A pink spot burned upon his cheeks. “I do not attend music-halls, sir, nor have I touched wine or spirits for years. I--I have a wife to keep, and perhaps--I am expecting--” He stopped abruptly. How could he mention that other matter which, for all its anxieties, still possessed for him a sort of quickening joy in the face of that brutal stare. He did not conclude his sentence, the momentary light died out of his pale commonplace features. He hung his head and was silent.