Skinner was no sooner inflated than his demure obsequious manner
underwent a certain change: slight and occasional only; but Hardie was a
subtle man, and the perilous path he was treading made him wonderfully
watchful, suspicious, and sagacious. He said to himself, "What has come
to Skinner? I must know." So he quietly watched his watcher; and soon
satisfied himself he suspected something amiss. From that hour Skinner
was a doomed clerk.
It was two o'clock: Hardie had just arrived, and sat in the parlour,
Cato-like, and cooking.
Skinner was in high spirits: it was owing to his presence of mind the
bank had not been broken some hours ago by Maxley. So now, while
concluding his work, he was enjoying by anticipation his employer's
gratitude. "He can't hold aloof after this," said Skinner; "he must
honour me with his confidence. And I will deserve it. I do deserve it."
A grave, calm, passionless voice invited him into the parlour.
He descended from his desk and went in, swelling with demure complacency.
He found Mr. Hardie seated garbling his accounts with surpassing dignity.
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