This address in the presence of the public, his run upstairs and the porter he had gulped down so hastily confused the man and, as he sat down at his desk to get what was required, he realised how hopeless was the task of finishing his copy of the contract before half past five.  The dark damp night was coming and he longed to spend it in the bars, drinking with his friends amid the glare of gas and the clatter of glasses.  He got out the Delacour correspondence and passed out of the office.  He hoped Mr. Alleyne would not discover that the last two letters were missing.

The moist pungent perfume lay all the way up to Mr. Alleyne’s room.  Miss Delacour was a middle-aged woman of Jewish appearance.  Mr. Alleyne was said to be sweet on her or on her money.  She came to the office often and stayed a long time when she came.  She was sitting beside his desk now in an aroma of perfumes, smoothing the handle of her umbrella and nodding the great black feather in her hat.  Mr. Alleyne had swivelled his chair round to face her and thrown his right foot jauntily upon his left knee.  The man put the correspondence on the desk and bowed respectfully but neither Mr. Alleyne nor Miss Delacour took any notice of his bow.  Mr. Alleyne tapped a finger on the correspondence and then flicked it towards him as if to say:  “That’s all right:  you can go.”

The man returned to the lower office and sat down again at his desk.  He stared intently at the incomplete phrase:  In no case shall the said Bernard Bodley be... and thought how strange it was that the last three words began with the same letter.  The chief clerk began to hurry Miss Parker, saying she would never have the letters typed in time for post.  The man listened to the clicking of the machine for a few minutes and then set to work to finish his copy.  But his head was not clear and his mind wandered away to the glare and rattle of the public-house.  It was a night for hot punches.  He struggled on with his copy, but when the clock struck five he had still fourteen pages to write.  Blast it!  He couldn’t finish it in time.  He longed to execrate aloud, to bring his fist down on something violently.  He was so enraged that he wrote Bernard Bernard instead of Bernard Bodley and had to begin again on a clean sheet.

He felt strong enough to clear out the whole office singlehanded.  His body ached to do something, to rush out and revel in violence.  All the indignities of his life enraged him....  Could he ask the cashier privately for an advance?  No, the cashier was no good, no damn good:  he wouldn’t give an advance....  He knew where he would meet the boys:  Leonard and O’Halloran and Nosey Flynn.  The barometer of his emotional nature was set for a spell of riot.

His imagination had so abstracted him that his name was called twice before he answered.  Mr. Alleyne and Miss Delacour were standing outside the counter and all the clerks had turn round in anticipation of something.  The man got up from his desk.  Mr. Alleyne began a tirade of abuse, saying that two letters were missing.  The man answered that he knew nothing about them, that he had made a faithful copy.  The tirade continued:  it was so bitter and violent that the man could hardly restrain his fist from descending upon the head of the manikin before him: