Arthur Carroll had never been a man who opened wide all the doors of his secrets of life to all his friends and acquaintances.  Some had one entrance, some another, and it is probable that he always reserved ways of entrance and egress unknown to any except himself.  At the very time that he evaded the solicitude of Banbridge with regard to his haunts in the City he was more than open, even ostentatious concerning them to some parties in the City itself, but he was silent regarding Banbridge.  It may have been for the reason that he did not for the present wish to mix the City and Banbridge, that he wished to preserve mysteries concerning himself in the regard of both.  It is certain that nobody in his office, where he roused considerable speculation even among a more engrossed and less inquisitive class, knew where he lived.  The office had not heard of Banbridge; Banbridge had heard of the office, but knew nothing about it.  The office, in a way, was not nearly as wise as Banbridge, for it knew nothing whatever of his family affairs.  There was therein much speculation and, more than that, heart-burning as to whether Captain Carroll was or was not married.  In the inner office, whence issued a mad tick of type-writers all through business hours, were two girls, one quite young and very pretty, the other also young, but not so pretty, both working for very small returns.  There was also a book-keeper, a middle-aged man, and vibrating from the inner to the outer office was a young fellow with an innocent, high forehead and an eager, anxious outlook of brown eyes and a fashion of seeming to hang suspended on springs of readiness for motion when an order should come.

This young fellow, who sped in and out with that alacrity at the word of command, who hastened on errands with such impetus that he inspired alarm among the imaginative, had acquired a curious springiness about his hips that almost gave the effect of dislocation.  He winked very fast, having gotten a nervous trick.  He hurried ceaselessly.  He had upon him the profound conviction of not time enough and the need of haste.  He was in love with the prettier of the stenographers, and his heart was torn when he heard the surmises as to his employer’s married or single estate.  He used to watch Carroll when he left the office at night, and satisfied himself that he turned towards Sixth Avenue, and then he satisfied himself no more.  Carroll plunged into mystery at night as he did for Banbridge in the morning.  It was borne in upon the clerk who had an opulent imagination that Carroll was a great swell and went every night to one of the swellest of the up-town clubs, where he resided in luxury and the most genteel and lordly dissipation.  He had, at the same time, a jealousy of and a profound pride in Carroll.  Carroll himself had a sort of kindly scorn of him, and treated him very well.  He was not of the description of weak character who antagonized him.