“Eh?  Are you going to stand there all day?  Upon my word, Farrington, you take things easy!”

“I was waiting to see...”

“Very good, you needn’t wait to see.  Go downstairs and do your work.”

The man walked heavily towards the door and, as he went out of the room, he heard Mr. Alleyne cry after him that if the contract was not copied by evening Mr. Crosbie would hear of the matter.

He returned to his desk in the lower office and counted the sheets which remained to be copied.  He took up his pen and dipped it in the ink but he continued to stare stupidly at the last words he had written:  In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley be...  The evening was falling and in a few minutes they would be lighting the gas:  then he could write.  He felt that he must slake the thirst in his throat.  He stood up from his desk and, lifting the counter as before, passed out of the office.  As he was passing out the chief clerk looked at him inquiringly.

“It’s all right, Mr. Shelley,” said the man, pointing with his finger to indicate the objective of his journey.

The chief clerk glanced at the hat-rack, but, seeing the row complete, offered no remark.  As soon as he was on the landing the man pulled a shepherd’s plaid cap out of his pocket, put it on his head and ran quickly down the rickety stairs.  From the street door he walked on furtively on the inner side of the path towards the corner and all at once dived into a doorway.  He was now safe in the dark snug of O’Neill’s shop, and filling up the little window that looked into the bar with his inflamed face, the colour of dark wine or dark meat, he called out: 

“Here, Pat, give us a g.p.. like a good fellow.”

The curate brought him a glass of plain porter.  The man drank it at a gulp and asked for a caraway seed.  He put his penny on the counter and, leaving the curate to grope for it in the gloom, retreated out of the snug as furtively as he had entered it.

Darkness, accompanied by a thick fog, was gaining upon the dusk of February and the lamps in Eustace Street had been lit.  The man went up by the houses until he reached the door of the office, wondering whether he could finish his copy in time.  On the stairs a moist pungent odour of perfumes saluted his nose:  evidently Miss Delacour had come while he was out in O’Neill’s.  He crammed his cap back again into his pocket and re-entered the office, assuming an air of absentmindedness.

“Mr. Alleyne has been calling for you,” said the chief clerk severely.  “Where were you?”

The man glanced at the two clients who were standing at the counter as if to intimate that their presence prevented him from answering.  As the clients were both male the chief clerk allowed himself a laugh.

“I know that game,” he said.  “Five times in one day is a little bit...  Well, you better look sharp and get a copy of our correspondence in the Delacour case for Mr. Alleyne.”