The Argosy — page 12: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

2 The Master of Greylands. clear and bright. In manner he was courteous, but naturally silent ; rather remarkably so ; his private character unexceptionable. The long table in the middle of the room was to-day more than usually covered with papers; a small marble slab between Mr. Peter Castle- maime’s left hand and the wall held sundry open ledgers piled one upon another, to which he kept referring. Column after column of figures: the very sight of them enough to give an unfinancial man the night- mare; but the banker ran his fingers up and down the rows at railroad speed ; for, to him, it was mere child’s play. But for that fact he might not have been seated where he was to-day, the greatest banker for miles round. And yet, as he sat there his face presented a sad contrast to them and to the ease and luxury of the room. Sad, careworn, anxious, looked he ; and, as he now and again paused in his work to pass his hand over his brow, a heavy sigh escaped him. ‘The more he referred to his ledgers, and compared them with figures and papers on the desk before him, so much the more perplexed and harassed did his face become. In his eyes there was the look of a hunted animal; of a drowning man catching at a straw; the look that must have been in the eyes of poor Louis Dixhuit when they discovered him in his disguise and turned his horses’ heads backwards, At last, throwing down his pen, he felk back in his chair, and hid his face in his hands. “ No escape,” he murmured, ‘‘no escape! Unless a miracle should supervene, I am undone.” He remained in this attitude, for some minutes, revolving many things: problems'working themselves in and out of his brain confusedly, as a man works in and about a labyrinth to which he has lost the clue. A small clock on the mantelpiece struck the hour, five, and then chimed an air once popular in France. It was a costly trifle that the banker had bought years ago. The chimes aroused him. ‘I must talk to Hill,” he muttered: “no use in putting it off till another day.” And he touched the spring of his small hand bell. } In answer, the door opened, and there entered a little elderly man with snow-white hair, worn long behind, and a good-looking, fair, and intellectual face, its blue eyes beaming with benevolence. It was Thomas Hill; for many years Mr. Peter Castlemaine’s confidential clerk and nght hand. : ‘Come in, Hill,” said the banker. ‘Close the door—and lock it.” “The clerks are gone, sir; the last has just left,” was the reply. But the old man nevertheless turned the key of the door. Mr. Peter Castlemaine pointed to a seat close to him, and his clerk, quiet in his movements, as in the tones of his voice, took it in silence. Fora minute they looked at each other; Thomas(Hill’s face reflecting the uneasiness of his master’s. He was the first to speak. : COMCLOO© SS (C(O)