Quite eighteen months had elapsed, when it became evident to me that Mr Blakeford was in some trouble with one of his clients. This latter, a tall florid-looking farmer, had, as I learned from what I heard of their conversation, borrowed money from my employer upon some security, with the understanding that payment was not to be enforced so long as the heavy interest was provided for.
Mr Blakeford’s business seemed to consist a great deal in money-lending, and every now and then my old acquaintance, Mr Rowle, came to the office for instructions, and found time for a friendly chat.
Upon this occasion I noticed that Mr Blakeford was very anxious about the coming of some one to the office, and he spent a good deal of time in watching from one of the windows.
He was sternly examining a piece of copying that I had just finished, when there came three heavy knocks with a stick upon the outer door of the office.
Mr Blakeford turned yellow, and, catching me by the arm, whispered—
“It’s Mr Wooster. Antony, say I’m not at home. Say I’ve gone out. Quick.”
He pushed me towards the door, and I went to open it just as there were three more heavy knocks, and on drawing back the fastening, there stood Mr Wooster, the stout, tall, farmer-looking man, scowling and angry.
“Where’s Mr Blakeford?” he cried, catching me fiercely by the collar, and shaking a stout ash stick he carried.
“Please, sir—” I began.
