The Adventure of the Stockbroker’s Clerk

“You look ill, Mr. Pinner!” he exclaimed.

“Yes, I am not very well,” answered the other, making obvious efforts to pull himself together and licking his dry lips before he spoke. “Who are these gentlemen whom you have brought with you?”

“One is Mr. Harris, of Bermondsey, and the other is Mr. Price, of this town,” said our clerk glibly. “They are friends of mine and gentlemen of experience, but they have been out of a place for some little time, and they hoped that perhaps you might find an opening for them in the company’s employment.”

“Very possibly! very possibly!” cried Mr. Pinner with a ghastly smile. “Yes, I have no doubt that we shall be able to do something for you. What is your particular line, Mr. Harris?”

“I am an accountant,” said Holmes.

“Ah, yes, we shall want something of the sort. And you. Mr. Price? “

“A clerk,” said I.

“I have every hope that the company may accommodate you. I will let you know about it as soon as we come to any conclusion. And now I beg that you will go. For God’s sake leave me to myself!”

These last words were shot out of him, as though the constraint which he was evidently setting upon himself had suddenly and utterly burst asunder. Holmes and I glanced at each other, and Hall Pycroft took a step towards the table.

“You forget, Mr. Pinner, that I am here by appointment to receive some directions from you,” said he.

“Certainly, Mr. Pycroft, certainly,” the other resumed in a calmer tone. “You may wait here a moment and there is no reason why your friends should not wait with you. I will be entirely at your service in three minutes, if I might trespass upon your patience so far.” He rose with a very courteous air, and, bowing to us, he passed out through a door at the farther end of the room, which he closed behind him.

“What now?” whispered Holmes. “Is he giving us the slip?”

“Impossible,” answered Pycroft.

“Why so?”

“That door leads into an inner room.”

“There is no exit?”

“None.”

“Is it furnished?”

“It was empty yesterday.”

“Then what on earth can he be doing? There is something which I don’t understand in this matter. If ever a man was three parts mad with terror, that man’s name is Pinner. What can have put the shivers on him?”

“He suspects that we are detectives,” I suggested.

“That’s it,” cried Pycroft.

Holmes shook his head. “He did not turn pale. He was pale when we entered the room,” said he. “It is just possible that –“

His words were interrupted by a sharp rat-tat from the direction of the inner door.

“What the deuce is he knocking at his own door for?” cried the clerk.

 

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