"Better sit down here," said one of the senior clerks, offering him a chair; "the inner office is locked."
"Locked! who locked it?" asked Mr. Forde angrily.
"Mr. Werner, when he left yesterday," was the reply.
Ten minutes passed, quarter of an hour struck, then the manager said,
"It does not seem of much use my waiting here. Tell Mr. Werner to come round to me the instant he arrives—the instant, remember. What are you looking at each other for in that manner?" he continued, shouting at them passionately. "Do you mean to do what I tell you or not?"
All the clerks but one drew back a little abashed; they had silently countenanced the perpetration of a grim practical joke, which, while the clock went on ticking, seemed to grow flat and stale and unprofitable to each of them save Carless.
He it was who now answered.
"Perhaps you are not aware that our governor is dead."
"You had better take care, sir," said Mr. Forde. "I do not know whether Mr. Werner has granted you a licence for impertinence, but if he has—by—he shall rue it and you too."
"It is true though," interposed a man sitting in a dark part of the office, who had not hitherto spoken, but remained, his head supported by his hands, reading 'The Times.'