Miss Rye stepped into the semi-lighted room, for there was only a shaded lamp on Mr. Brown's desk; and Frank Greatorex, closing the door, was gone again. Mr. Brown, at work as late as his master, came forward.
"For Mr. Bede Greatorex," said Miss Rye, handing him the note. "I will wait----"
The words were broken off with a faint, sharp cry. A cry, low though it was, of surprise, of terror, of dismay. Both their faces blanched to whiteness, they stood gazing at each other, she with strained eyes and drawnback lips, he with a kind of forced stillness on his features, that nevertheless told of inward emotion.
"Oh, my good heaven!" she breathed in her agitation. "Is it you?"
Miss Rye had heard speak of Mr. Brown, the managing clerk in the department of Mr. Bede Greatorex. Jenner had mentioned him: Roland Yorke had commented on him and his wig. But that "Mr. Brown" should be the man now standing before her, she had never suspected; no, not in her wildest dreams.
"Sit down, Miss Rye. You are faint."
She put his arm from her, as he would have supported her to a seat, and staggered to one of herself. He followed, and stood by her in silence.
"What are you called here?" she began--and, it may be, that in the moment's agitation she forgot his ostensible name and really put it as a question, not in mocking, condemnatory scorn:--"Godfrey Pitman?"
Every instinct of terror the man possessed seemed to rise up within him at sound of the name. He glanced round the room; at the desks; at the walls; as if to assure himself that no ear was there.
"Hush--sh--sh!" with a prolonged note of caution. "Never breathe that name, here or elsewhere."