Try as he might, Bellair could not feel free, as of old time. He felt the other wanted something, and this checked his every offering. He knew that Broadwell, at least six months before, could not have believed ill of Lot & Company, and there was no apparent change. The disclosure of the press must have righted itself in the office so far as he, Bellair, was concerned; surely Broadwell did not share the dread of him the landlady had shown; and yet, it was hard to broach these things. The advertising-man apparently had no intention of doing so.
“We’ve all missed you on the lower floor,” he said.
“Are there any changes?”
“Very few.”
“Who took my place?”
“Man from outside. Mr. Rawter brought in the man—middle-aged. Mr. Sproxley knew him, too.”
“Poor devil,” said Bellair, but not audibly. They had not dared to open the ledger revelations to any one in the office, but had found a man outside who was doubtless familiar with such books, doubtless one who had been deformed in the long, slow twistings of trade. Perhaps this one had children. Children were good for Lot & Company’s most trusted servants. It was well to have a number of children, like Mr. Sproxley—for their wants are many, and a man’s soul cannot breathe in the midst of many wants and small salary.
“Are you coming over to the office?”
“Yes, I find I have to. Some folks are taking the end Lot and Company gave the newspapers about my leaving. They were very much in a hurry about giving out that newspaper story—with the money in the vaults.”
Broadwell regarded him seriously. “I suppose they took the point of view that there could be but one motive for your leaving, without giving notice. Most firms would——”