‘Mr Armytage,’ said the stranger, ‘ask your clerk if he can tell us, from previous knowledge, anything about this workman.’
The senior partner looked inquiringly at Walter.
‘I’ve known him for years,’ said the young clerk. ‘When a man is wanted to repair anything in the office, we always send for Joe Grimrood.’ While the quill was scratching, the head gave a nod, and the voice exclaimed: ‘Go on!’
Walter then mentioned briefly by what accident he had discovered Silas Monk at his desk with the pile of sovereigns before him; and how, not daring to disturb him, he had gone away convinced that the head-cashier was nothing better than an ‘old miser,’ as he expressed it.
As soon as Walter Tiltcroft had finished his recital, the pen gave a final scratch; then the stranger rose from the table, folded some papers together, placed them in his breast-pocket, and taking up his hat and stick, went out.
When he was gone, the senior partner, still standing on the rug, turned to Walter, and said: ‘Go back to your desk. Do not quit the counting-house to-day; you may be wanted at any moment.’
All day long, Walter sat at his desk waiting, with his eyes constantly bent upon the iron-bound door of the strong-room. Within it, he pictured to himself Silas Monk wrapped in a white shroud lying stretched in death, with his hands crossed, and his head raised upon huge antique ledgers. Presently, Walter even fancied that he heard the sovereigns chinking as they dropped out of the old man’s hands, followed by the sound of shuffling feet; and once, while he was listening, there seemed to issue from this chamber a stifled cry, which filled him with such terror and dismay, that he found it no easy matter to hide his agitation from his fellow-clerks, who would have laughed at him, if they had had the slightest suspicion that he was occupying his time in such an unprofitable manner, while they were as busily engaged with the affairs of Armytage and Company as if Silas Monk had never been born.
While these fancies were still troubling Walter Tiltcroft’s brain, he was sent for by the senior partner. ‘Read that,’ said Mr Armytage, pointing to a paper on his table as the young man entered the room. ‘It is a telegram from Fenwick the detective.’ It ran as follows:
‘Send Tiltcroft alone to Limehouse Police Station.’