Horrocleave, his elbow on the table, leaned his head on his hand and began to examine the book.  Suddenly he looked up at Louis, who could not move and could not cease from agreeably smiling.

Said Horrocleave in a still more peculiar tone—­

“Just ask Axon whether he means to go fetch wages to-day or to-morrow.  Has he forgotten it’s Saturday morning?”

Louis shot away into the outer office, where Axon was just putting on his hat to go to the bank.

Alone in the outer office Louis wondered.  The whole of his vitality was absorbed in the single function of wondering.  Then through the thin slit of the half-open door between the top and the middle hinges, he beheld Horrocleave bending in judgment over the book.  And he gazed at the vision in the fascination of horror.  In a few moments Horrocleave leaned back, and Louis saw that his face had turned paler.  It went almost white.  Horrocleave was breathing strangely, his arms dropped downward, his body slipped to one side, his cap fell off, his eyes shut, his mouth opened, his head sank loosely over the back of the chair like the head of a corpse.  He had fainted.  The thought passed through Louis’ mind that stupefaction at the complex unrighteousness of the petty-cash records had caused Horrocleave to lose consciousness.  Then the true explanation occurred to him.  It was the pain in his ankle that had overcome the heroic sufferer.  Louis had desired to go to his aid, but he could not budge from his post.  Presently the colour began slowly to return to Horrocleave’s cheek; his eyes opened; he looked round sleepily and then wildly; and then he rubbed his eyes and yawned.  He remained quiescent for several minutes, while a railway lorry thundered through the archway and the hoofs of the great horse crunched on shawds in the yard.  Then he called, in a subdued voice—­

“Louis!  Where the devil are ye?”

Louis re-entered the room, and as he did so Horrocleave shut the petty-cash book with an abrupt gesture.

“Here, take it!” said he, pushing the book away.

“Is it all right?” Louis asked.

Horrocleave nodded.  “Well, I’ve checked about forty additions.”  And he smiled sardonically.

“I think you might do it a bit oftener,” said Louis, and then went on:  “I say, don’t you think it might be a good thing if you took your boot off.  You never know, when you’ve slipped, whether it won’t swell—­I mean the ankle.”

“Bosh!” exclaimed Horrocleave, with precipitation, but after an instant added thoughtfully:  “Well, I dun’no’.  Wouldn’t do any harm, would it?  I say—­get me some water, will you?  I don’t know how it is, but I’m as thirsty as a dog.”

The heroic martyr to the affirmation that he had not hurt himself had handsomely saved his honour.  He could afford to relax a little now the rigour of consistency in conduct.  With twinges and yawns he permitted Louis to help him with the boot and to put an art-lustre cup to his lips.