‘Exactly what we all say in the office,’ replied Walter. ‘But then, you know, five hundred a year is not so bad. I shall think myself lucky if I ever get within two hundred of it—I shall indeed.’
Could she be dreaming? Five hundred pounds a year! Ever since her earliest childhood, she had implicitly believed that fifteen shillings a week was the amount her grandfather earned—not a farthing more.
Rachel rose from her seat and went to the window. Her perplexity was too great to allow her, without betraying it, to utter a word. Yet she wished to speak; she wanted to question Walter in a hundred ways. There were perhaps other mysteries—at least so she began to think—which he might assist her to solve. Calming herself as best she could, she turned to him, and said: ‘Can you stay a moment longer? There is something I should like to know about my grandfather.’
‘There are many things, Rachel, that I should like to know,’ said the young man, laughing. ‘Many things that most of us at the office would like to know about the dear, eccentric, old fellow!—Well, Rachel, what is it?’
The girl, hesitating a moment, replied: ‘One thing puzzles me greatly—why is grandfather kept so very late every evening at the office?’
Walter Tiltcroft looked round quickly. ‘What do you call late, Rachel?’
‘Ten o’clock, eleven, sometimes midnight.’
‘No one remains after six.’
‘No one?’ asked the girl—‘not even grandfather?’
‘That,’ replied the young man, ‘no one knows. He is always the last. He locks up the place. He is First Lord of the Treasury. He looks after the cash: he stays to see that all is safe in the strong-room. That has been his office for years. He is, some of them think, getting too old for the post. But that’s a matter for the partners to settle. He is still hale and hearty. There is, therefore, no reason why he should be superseded—at least, none that I can see.’