And now Louis was the step-nephew of a Lieutenant-General, a man of private means and of talent, and a trusted employee with a fine wage—­all under one skin!  He shone in Bursley, and no wonder!  He was very active at Horrocleave’s.  He not only designed shapes for vases, and talked intimately with Jim Horrocleave about fresh projects, but he controlled the petty cash.  The expenditure of petty cash grew, as was natural in a growing business.  Mr. Horrocleave soon got accustomed to that, and apparently gave it no thought, signing cheques instantly upon request.  But on the very day of Mrs. Maldon’s party, after signing a cheque and before handing it to Louis, he had somewhat lengthily consulted his private cash-book, and, as he handed over the cheque, had said:  “Let’s have a squint at the petty-cash book to-morrow morning, Louis.”  He said it gruffly, but he was a gruff man.  He left early.  He might have meant anything or nothing.  Louis could not decide which; or rather, from five o’clock to seven he had come to alternating decisions every five minutes.

II

It was just about at the time when Louis ought to have been removing his paper cuff-shields in order to start for Mrs. Maldon’s that he discovered the full extent of his debt to the petty-cash box.  He sat alone at a rough and dirty desk in the inner room of the works “office,” surrounded by dust-covered sample vases and other vessels of all shapes, sizes, and tints—­specimens of Horrocleave’s “Art Lustre Ware,” a melancholy array of ingenious ugliness that nevertheless filled with pride its creators.  He looked through a dirt-obscured window and with unseeing gaze surveyed a muddy, littered quadrangle whose twilight was reddened by gleams from the engine-house.  In this yard lay flat a sign that had been blown down from the facade of the manufactory six months before:  “Horrocleave.  Art Lustre Ware.”  Within the room was another sign, itself fashioned in lustre-ware:  “Horrocleave.  Art Lustre Ware.”  And the envelopes and paper and bill-heads on the desk all bore the same legend:  “Horrocleave.  Art Lustre Ware.”

He owed seventy-three pounds to the petty-cash box, and he was startled and shocked.  He was startled because for weeks past he had refrained from adding up the columns of the cash-book—­partly from idleness and partly from a desire to remain in ignorance of his own doings.  He had hoped for the best.  He had faintly hoped that the deficit would not exceed ten pounds, or twelve; he had been prepared for a deficit of twenty-five, or even thirty.  But seventy-three really shocked.  Nay, it staggered.  It meant that in addition to his salary, some thirty shillings a week had been mysteriously trickling through the incurable hole in his pocket.  Not to mention other debts!  He well knew that to Shillitoe alone (his admirable tailor) he owed eighteen pounds.