‘Yes,’ said Ryley, departing without a sign on his face, the model clerk.

‘Fool!’ whispered Stanway.  It would have been impossible for Ryley to breathe without irritating his employer, and the fact that his plebeian cousin’s son was probably the most reliable underling to be got in the Five Towns did not in the slightest degree lessen Stanway’s dislike of him; it increased it.

Stanway had been perfectly aware that the little ledger was in his safe, and as soon as Ryley had shut the door he jumped up, unlatched the safe, removed the book, and after tearing it in two stuck first one half and then the other into the midst of the fire.

‘That ends it, anyhow!’ he thought, when the leaves were consumed.

Then he selected some books of cheque counterfoils, a number of prospectuses of companies, some share certificates (exasperating relic of what rich dreams!), and a lot of letters.  All these he burnt with much neatness and care, putting more coal on the fire so as to hide every trace of their destruction.  Then he opened a drawer in the desk, and took out a revolver which he unloaded and loaded again.

‘I’m pretty cool,’ he flattered himself.

He was the sort of flamboyant man who keeps a loaded revolver in obedience to the theory that a loaded revolver is a necessary and proper part of the true male’s outfit, like a gold watch and chain, a gold pencil case, a razor for every day in the week, and a cigar-holder with a bit of good amber to it.  He had owned that revolver for years, with no thought of utilising the weapon.  But in justice to him, it must be said that when any of his contemporaries—­Titus Price, for instance—­had made use of revolvers or ropes in a particular way, he had always secretly justified and commended them.

He put the revolver in his hip-pocket, the correct location, and donned his ‘works’ hat.  He did not reflect.  Memories of his past life did not occur to him, nor visions of that which was to come.  He did not feel solemn.  On the contrary he felt cross with everyone, and determined to pay everyone out; in particular he was vexed, in a mean childish way, with Uncle Meshach, and with himself for having fancied for a moment that an appeal to Uncle Meshach could be successful.  One other idea struck him forcibly by reason of its strangeness:  namely, that the works was proceeding exactly as usual, raw material always coming in, finished goods always going out, the various shops hot and murmurous with toil, money tinkling in the petty cash-box, the very engine beneath his floor beating its customary monotonous stroke; and his comfortable home was proceeding exactly as usual, the man hissing about the stable yard, the servants discreetly moving in the immaculate kitchens, Leonora elegant with sovereigns in her purse, the girls chattering and restless; not a single outward sign of disaster; and yet he was at the end, absolutely at the end at last.  There was going to be a magnificent