There was a knock at the door. Van Arlen started as if he had committed a crime, yet kept looking at the money that had been entrusted to him. It was in an unsteady voice that he said, “Come in.”
“Mijnheer Van Teuten would like to speak to you.”
“Van Teuten?—I’m busy—well, one minute, then. Tell him to come in.”
The man ushered into the private room wrote a magnificent hand. For the moment that was nothing to the point—yet, after all, it was something, for Van Teuten owed his career to it—“the best hand in the department.” He did not write quickly—that was beneath his dignity—but for really beautiful writing no one could come near him.
Van Teuten was visibly disturbed, as he stood facing Van Arlen, who sat leaning over his desk. The cash-box was shut.
“Well, Mr Van Teuten?”
“Mr Van Arlen—I’m come—I hope you’ll excuse it. I’ve come to make a request, on which my future depends.”
Van Arlen looked up from his paper, and coughed importantly, fixing his dark eyes on the chief clerk, as though he suspected him of high treason.
“You know perhaps that—that I have absolutely no means of my own, and, with the title of assistant secretary (which I owe to my handwriting)”—here Van Teuten raised his head with a certain pride—“in spite of my handwriting, still only draw the salary of chief clerk.”
“Do you want to be promoted, Mr Van Teuten?”