Of course there was still Tom Horn. And Anthony smiled as he thought of him. Tom Horn never spoke to any one unless he was spoken to. All day he added, and subtracted, and multiplied, and dotted his "i's" and crossed his "t's." His white, nervous hands seemed tireless; his thin body was bent over the high desk where the great books of the house lay open before him. On the first morning Anthony spent in the counting-room Griggs said, behind his hand:
"Don't mind Tom. A kindly chap and harmless, but queer."
Once Anthony mentioned the man to his uncle; Charles smiled and said;
"Poor Tom! I'm very fond of him. But I'm afraid there is too much moon-glow in his mind. He was shipwrecked once, and I think that was the cause of it. But he's a shrewd hand at accounts; I've seen no better anywhere, and he's as dependable as might be. But he's queer."
The queerness Anthony was prepared to grant; but after a few days in the place, when he'd got settled down sufficiently to notice details, he began to feel it manifest itself in ways that carried a disquieting touch. Should he pass Tom Horn's desk, Anthony would see him bent over, scratching away at his figures; but as soon as the young man got by he had the feeling that the bent head had been lifted and that the man was following him with his eyes. Sometimes Anthony would sit with a heap of the routine work of the place before him or turning some vexed thing over in his mind; then an odd, restless feeling would come over him, and he'd look up, irritated. Over the edge of the tall desk he'd see the peculiarly glowing eyes of the man fixed upon him. This Anthony noted quite often, and in various ways. In the street he'd see Tom Horn standing behind a bale of goods or a hogshead, watching him guardedly; or it might be that his vantage-place would be a doorway, or behind the jutting edge of a sharp window. But always he had the same steady stare, his brows bent, a difficult something apparently revolving in his troubled mind. Tom was always first in the counting-room of a morning; an old porter told Anthony that he was there very often as early as four o'clock.
"I always have a fire for Mr. Horn," said the man. "There's no telling when he'll come in and start his day. He's an early bird, indeed, Mr. Horn is."
Anthony always bade the eccentric clerk the time of day; but Tom Horn never replied except with a questioning look that continued long after the young man had turned away. But one morning Anthony had occasion to hand him some bills for entry, and Tom surprised him by saying in his peculiarly hushed voice:
"Every one gives me figures. I see figures in my sleep."
"I don't doubt it," smiled Anthony.
"Each figure," said Tom Horn, "is made up of parts of other figures. Have you ever thought of that? Each leads into each; and so they make a circle. All circles are open, but they grow narrower. Sometimes they do it themselves; sometimes," and he nodded his head, his eyes fast upon Anthony's face, "we make them do it. There's a law for it; it's a law every one should study."