He goes toward Falder’s room.

Cokeson.  Just a word, Mr. James.

James.  Well?

Cokeson.  You don’t want to upset the young man in there, do you? 
He’s a nervous young feller.

James.  This must be thoroughly cleared up, Cokeson, for the sake of
Falder’s name, to say nothing of yours.

Cokeson. [With Some dignity] That’ll look after itself, sir.  He’s been upset once this morning; I don’t want him startled again.

James.  It’s a matter of form; but I can’t stand upon niceness over a thing like this—­too serious.  Just talk to Mr. Cowley.

     He opens the door of Falder’s room.

James.  Bring in the papers in Boulter’s lease, will you, Falder?

Cokeson. [Bursting into voice] Do you keep dogs?

     The cashier, with his eyes fixed on the door, does not answer.

Cokeson.  You haven’t such a thing as a bulldog pup you could spare me, I suppose?

     At the look on the cashier’s face his jaw drops, and he turns to
     see Falder standing in the doorway, with his eyes fixed on
     Cowley, like the eyes of a rabbit fastened on a snake.

Falder. [Advancing with the papers] Here they are, sir!

James. [Taking them] Thank you.

Falder.  Do you want me, sir?

James.  No, thanks!

     Falder turns and goes back into his own room.  As he shuts the
     door James gives the cashier an interrogative look, and the
     cashier nods.

James.  Sure?  This isn’t as we suspected.

Cowley.  Quite.  He knew me.  I suppose he can’t slip out of that room?

Cokeson. [Gloomily] There’s only the window—­a whole floor and a basement.

     The door of Falder’s room is quietly opened, and Falder, with
     his hat in his hand, moves towards the door of the outer office.

James. [Quietly] Where are you going, Falder?

Falder.  To have my lunch, sir.

James.  Wait a few minutes, would you?  I want to speak to you about this lease.

Falder.  Yes, sir. [He goes back into his room.]

Cowley.  If I’m wanted, I can swear that’s the young man who cashed the cheque.  It was the last cheque I handled that morning before my lunch.  These are the numbers of the notes he had. [He puts a slip of paper on the table; then, brushing his hat round] Good-morning!

James.  Good-morning, Mr. Cowley!

Cowley. [To Cokeson] Good-morning.

Cokeson. [With Stupefaction] Good-morning.

     The cashier goes out through the outer office.  Cokeson sits down
     in his chair, as though it were the only place left in the
     morass of his feelings.